Verge of Darkness
*******
With darkness falling, Masrel and Kalas felt it best to spend the night at the fortress, ghosts or not. It had been a harrowing day.
Cooking fires were lit. Wives, mothers and sisters got busy, and the appetising scent of stews and roasting meat soon filled the air.
Kalas joined Masrel in front of his wagon, while Sula and Lorell prepared the ingredients for a stew. Sula peeling and chopping onions, potatoes and parsnips, while Lorell skinned, gutted and filleted four large rabbits Kalas had brought down with a sling earlier in the day.
Kalas passed Masrel a jug. The blacksmith’s eyes flitted to Sula and Lorell as he drank. The two women, heads together in earnest conversation appeared like two old friends, or sisters, doing what women did best – gossiping. His brow darkened. It was likely he was the subject of their whispering.
Kalas, noting the direction of the other's gaze, chuckled as he reached for the jug. “Aye, the likes of us will never understand women. Look at them, they are the best of friends now.”
Masrel grunted an obscenity.
Kalas laughed. “Looks like you've got two women on your hands. Beleth's stones, man. I don't know if the fates have blessed or cursed you.”
Masrel shook his head, letting out a long sigh.
Kalas laughed again, spluttering as the wine slid down the wrong way.
Masrel glared at the ageing tracker. “I don't know what you are laughing at, you old goat. My life is ruined. Two women and two wailing snot-nosed brats. They'll be the death of me.”
Choking back more mirth, Kalas looked at the burly blacksmith. “Well, a man goes looking for trouble, he’ll find it.” He glanced at Lorell. “Can't say I blame you though, she is a fine-looking woman. But you being a married man an’ all with two children, maybe you should have left her for the likes of virile young men like me.”
Masrel guffawed, his good humour restored. “Sayler's tits, man, you are so ancient, you wouldn't know what to do with it!”
The men's loud laughter drew disapproving looks from both women.
Masrel shook his head in resignation. “There it is. They can sit there sharing long tales about me, but us men, who have to go out hunting, or slave over a hot forge to provide for them, can't have our bit of fun.”
Kalas glanced over to where Moon sat, his back against the wall. He had seen the woman, Parsis place a blanket over him. His massive axe lying next to him, the man was snoring softly. “Who is he?” he asked, looking back at Masrel.
The blacksmith shrugged. “Mithros knows. He was already here. He tried to warn us about the demons. I saw him on the battlements waving his arms about.”
Kalas grunted, rubbing at his sleep-deprived eyes. “Never seen a man that big before. Cow shagger is the size of a small mountain!”
“Aye,” Masrel responded. “Did you see the way he snapped that beast's neck with one hand?”
“And how he sliced off that pigging demon's head?” Kalas added. “I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. Did you hear that demon's bones crack?”
“Aye. Mithros must have favoured us. We wouldn't have made it without the stranger. Those things would have killed us all.”
Kalas responded with a string of obscenities, before concluding. “A pox on Mithros. If he truly favoured us we wouldn't have been driven out of our homes by a bunch of soul-drinking demons!”
“Hush, man,” Masrel cautioned. “It brings nothing but bad luck and ill tidings to curse the gods.”
Kalas's only response was a snort of derision.
Moon stirred, coming awake slowly. His back hurt and his shoulder was stiff. He stood up with a groan, stretching his back and lifting his arms over his head.
Lowering his arms, he ran his hand over the top of his right shoulder. He remembered the demon's blade cutting him. He felt some pain, but the cut appeared to be healing. Wounds and cuts he had suffered over the years always sealed themselves and healed rapidly. He had no idea how, but he wasn't complaining. He wondered why the growth in his head, as old Hjotra had called it, wasn't healing though.
Dismissing the matter from his mind, he looked around. The courtyard was dotted with camp fires set before wagons and carts of every description. Men, women, children and families sat before them.
The aromatic smell of cooking stew reminded him how hungry he was. Casting a look around, his saw the tough looking old man he had spoken to earlier sitting in front of a fire with the leader of the convoy. Both men looked up as he approached and beckoned him to join them.
As he sat down, a dark-haired woman placed a large wooden bowl of a wonderfully smelling stew in his hands. Looking up at her, he nodded his thanks as she handed him a roughly carved wooden spoon.
The three men were joined by another woman together with two children, a boy and a girl Moon judged between eight and ten summers.
Moon set to. The taste was glorious, the best rabbit stew he had ever had. The blend of wild onions, potatoes, and an unfamiliar slightly fibrous vegetable, gave it a wonderful flavour. All was quiet except for the sound of slurping, and spoons scrapping platters. After the travails of the day, it was clear all were enjoying the repast as much as Moon was.
The meal finished, the women cleared the platters away and ushered the children back to the wagon. Returning to the fire, they sat and shared a jug of wine with the men.
Introductions were made. Moon noticed a slight hesitation when it came to the dark-haired woman. He caught the eye of Kalas, who gave a sly, knowing wink.
Relaxed, and belly pleasantly full, Moon leaned back on his elbows. He looked up at his hosts. “What in the six hells were those pigging things?”
Masrel scratched at an itch in an armpit, then leaned forward to spit in the fire. The fire hissed briefly. “If all is to be believed, they were soul-drinking demons awakened after a thousand years.”
Moon looked at him doubtfully. Shaking his head, he puffed out his cheeks. “Sutr's eyes, man. If I hadn't seen them, and slain a couple myself, I would call you a liar who has lost his mind.”
Kalas nodded ruefully. “I know, my friend. Even after all I have seen, I still find it hard to believe.”
“Where have you come from, and why were they chasing you?” Moon asked.
“The pigging things chased us all the way from Petralis.”
“Sutr's eyes,” the Axeman whispered. “Petralis. A traveller I met earlier said something about demons in Petralis. That's where I am headed.”
“Why man?” Masrel asked. “Most have fled the city.”
Moon was silent for a while before answering. “Been getting these headaches. The pain near drove me crazy. Witch-woman back home told me I had some kind of growth in my head that was killing me. Said I would find answers in Petralis. The Horned god knows how long I have been travelling.”
Sula looked at the Axeman sympathetically. “I have heard of such before, but have never heard of a cure.”
Masrel glanced at Sula, eyebrows raised in surprise. She usually wasn't one to talk to strangers. “And Petralis isn't renowned for its healers.” he added.
Moon shrugged. “I never liked the evil bitch, or trusted her. Ugly as sin, with a mole the size of my fist on her face! But demons or not, my path is set.” He paused, running his hand over his head. It felt stubbly. It was almost time to take a razor to it again. “I am not a man who believes in fate and such, but a whisper in my mind tells me I must go to Petralis. And by the six hells, I have come this far, so I might as well finish the journey.”
Desolation
It was a cold, cold distant world. The distance impossible to measure. Perhaps merely a few heartbeats away if reached through a portal or gateway, or maybe a hundred lifetimes beyond the stars.
A mist stirred in a frigid cavern deep beneath the surface of this close-distant world. Coal-red eyes blinking within the swirling mist betrayed the presence o
f life. If life, it could be called, for it was an abomination that shouldn't exist. An insult to life itself.
Beleth had existed in this form in the aeons since he and his brothers were driven from Tor-Arnath. They once had the power to take any physical form they wished, limited only by their imaginations. But, deprived of the sustenance provided by human souls, they had been reduced to a pathetic semi-sentient existence.
They had wasted precious energy seeking gateways to other worlds of sentient beings whose soul-fire they could feed on. They had found none.
Then Beleth had felt a tendril of soul-fire. He traced it back to the gateway leading to the human world. The barrier that had long denied them ingress was failing.
He and his brothers waited, patiently probing the obstacle. In time, a larger breach appeared. Beleth sent Herald through, then other Suanggi and their Bahktak followed. Soon, sustenance flowed back through the portal. He and his brothers grew stronger.
The mist rippled and those eyes glowed that little bit brighter as Beleth felt a strong jolt of energy. If this continued, he would soon be strong enough to force his way through the portal.
He felt another jolt, but this wasn't the pleasant surge of sustenance. It was the abrupt severance of his link to two Suanggi.
A susurration of anger vibrated through the cavern. This could only mean there were still human-creatures powerful enough to oppose their return. All he could do was send more Suanggi through and hope enough survived to send back the precious life essence.
The mist seethed and roiled as Beleth vented his impotent rage and frustration.