Chapter 7 - The Young One Goes

  “What year was Heligsol built, and by whom?”

  Elrin jerked upright and stared at Master Adrin, the history professor. “What?” he muttered, but something felt wrong with his mouth.

  “Have you not been paying attention, Elrin?” Adrin’s voice snapped.

  Elrin looked around, confused. I’m in class…what happened to the demons?

  It was a small room. Four long benches, five students to a side, facing Master Adrin. Faded battle tapestries and cracked maps populated the walls. A setting sun lit the dust moles in the air.

  I remember this day.

  “Year 192, and commissioned by His Majesty,” came a whisper behind Elrin. He turned to find Wean beside him.

  “Year 192 and commissioned by His Majesty,” Elrin repeated.

  Adrin stared at him through circular glasses, unblinking. His shadow was wrong. It stretched across the floor and ran up the wall to touch the ceiling.

  The academy’s bell rang, loud and clear. The students rose as one and filed towards the exit.

  “Wean, did you see his shadow?” Asked Elrin.

  “What shadow?” Wean looked confused. “And I can’t believe you didn’t know that,” he shook his head. “That’s the easiest question he could’ve asked you.”

  They walked through the crowded corridor. Students hurried past while others lingered by classroom doors, talking in clusters.

  Elrin stopped suddenly, hand going to his temple.

  Wean placed his hand on Elrin’s shoulder. “Something the matter?”

  “My head—” Pain lanced through his skull. “It hurts.”

  Wean’s hand slipped away. Then, the world went silent.

  Elrin looked up.

  The corridor was full of bodies. Students sprawled across the stone floor, torn and twisted limbs. Above each corpse hovered a pale blue flame, flickering without heat. At his feet lay Wean. Eyes open, staring at nothing.

  Elrin reached for him—then he noticed his own fingers. They had stretched grotesquely long, joints bulging beneath skin that had turned black. His nails curved into claws, wickedly sharp, blood dripping from each tip in slow, steady drops.

  “Boy, wake up.” muttered the old man in the carriage.

  Elrin fluttered his eyes open. He found the old man staring at him. A sense of relief washed over Elrin as he realized it was only a dream, but then he noticed the iron bars surrounding him, and remembered the dreadful place he was in.

  “I figured it was a nightmare,” the old man said, studying him. “You kept muttering the same word. ‘No.’ Again and again.”

  Was it a nightmare? No—those were memories. He’d been there, lived those moments. But they were wrong, twisted. Nothing that horrible had actually happened…had it?

  “Take a look,” said the old man, his eyes pointing to something behind Elrin.

  Turning around, Elrin saw it, and his throat went dry.

  A town that must have housed thousands at some point. Parts of it were burned and broken, blackened stone jutting from the earth. Other structures still stood, crooked and hollow, waiting to collapse.

  Humans moved through the streets in silence. Women and girls dressed in rags, skin gray with dirt, thin scars tracing their arms and necks. They carried baskets of flour and wheat under the watchful eye of a tall, slender demon. Its arms hung long, knuckles brushing its ankles as it swayed in place. Its head drooped forward on a neck too thin to support it, but its eyes—positioned on its forehead—tracked every movement with cold precision. A coiled whip rested against its hip, the leather studded with iron spikes that gleamed wetly in the light.

  Some of them looked toward the carriage as it passed. Their eyes were dull, emptied of tears, as if crying had long since lost its purpose. Some girls were about his age, fourteen or younger.

  Further down the road stood rows of wooden frames. Two beams driven into the ground, another laid across the top. Something hung from each one.

  “As sick as it looks, those stinking demons were clever,” muttered the man beside him. “That’s their gallery. A display of what comes to those who disobey.”

  As they drew closer, Elrin saw what remained. Bodies, hanging upside down from the beams. Nothing but bone now, stripped clean by time and birds, swaying gently in the wind.

  Eadward’s face flashed through the boy’s mind. As he was in those last moments. Broken, betrayed, surrounded by traitors to the crown.

  Wean. The image came unbidden—his friend’s smile replaced by hollow eyes, his body hanging from a beam, left to rot.

  Was he in a place like this? Suffering? Dying slowly while I’m sitting here, powerless?

  Elrin’s pity curdled into something hotter. It burned behind his eyes, steady and patient, like a fire waiting for breath.

  His hands clenched around the rope instinctively. The fibers bit into his wrists, cutting skin, drawing blood, but he did not feel it. The carriage slightly shuddered as he pulled.

  Something whispered into his ear, like the rustling of leaves.

  Pull.

  The rope stretched and the wood groaned. For a heartbeat, he was certain it would give.

  “Boy!” the old man whispered. “What is the matter with you?”

  But Elrin paid no heed. He kept pulling, fighting to wrench himself free. Pain lanced through his shoulder, the joint straining dangerously close to dislocating.

  The carriage stopped. Baara’s head whipped around, eyes boring into Elrin with intensity.

  The old man raised his leg and delivered a sharp blow against Elrin’s face. Pain exploded, white and sudden, tearing the pressure apart. He gasped, air rushing back into his lungs as the world snapped into focus.

  “We’re already behind schedule, Baara!” shouted the bald demon in Temoni, perched atop the carriage and seemingly unaware of Elrin’s activity. “Gunwald will strip our skin if we make him wait any longer!”

  Baara stared at Elrin for a long moment, suspicious.

  “Are you deaf you foul-faced beast?” the demon cried again.

  Baara snorted, picked up the carriage shafts and continued on his way.

  Elrin sagged against the bars, heart hammering. Heat still pulsed beneath his skin, that familiar, terrible warmth that had nearly surged free. His hands trembled, fearful, that next time he might not be able to stop it.

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  “I used to get hot-blooded like that when it all started,” murmured the man beside him. “Don’t think I’ve got it in me any longer. After a while, misery becomes acceptable.…”

  Elrin didn’t pay attention to what the man was saying, he was dumbfounded at what just happened.

  I could’ve…died, he thought grimly.

  He was no longer himself. Inside him lay an unknown power—one that had once possessed its own body, its own thoughts. He’d never considered the implications of harboring such a demon within his meager frame. And he had never expected to come so close to losing control so soon.

  “…and I told her many times not to marry that stupid knight,” the old man went on. “All they bring is trouble—but she wouldn’t listen.” The man smiled faintly. “Brought her blue cornflowers once,” he said. “She was so happy, said they matched her eyes.” His gaze drifted. “I still remember the first time she said Dada.”

  The smile lingered a moment longer than it should have. He shifted his shoulder and wiped away a tear.

  Then the man’s gaze fell to Elrin. “You’re a great listener. It’s good having a human companion on these journeys,” he said. “Name’s Rink.”

  The carriage hit a large rock, and they were all thrown upward.

  “Look at that. We’re close,” said Rink.

  The road tilted up a rocky hill before snaking left and right between tall mounds of green wilderness.

  Just before entering the winding path, the carriage crested high ground, and Elrin glimpsed the road behind them. Something small and black moved in the distance at a slow, steady pace.

  Is that...Lancelot?

  It took him a heartbeat to confirm. The gait, the low-hanging head, the glistening fur—Lancelot was tailing them.

  Elrin’s attention snapped to the demon-dogs surrounding the carriage. They seemed unaware of the feline.

  You idiot cat. You’ll get yourself killed if any of these creatures notice you.

  But Elrin couldn’t utter a word without drawing attention. Please stay safe. And stop following me everywhere. It was the only thing he could do, hoping desperately that somehow, the cat would understand.

  The carriage reached the peak of the hill and Elrin’s eyes widened at the sight.

  Before him, the land fell away into a vast basin of green, unnaturally flat, as though the earth itself had been pressed down by some colossal hand. In its center rose a mountain plateau, sheer and isolated.

  A city sat on top.

  Black stone walls curved around the plateau’s edge, smooth and cylindrical, reflecting sunlight with a dull, glass-like sheen. They did not look built so much as grown, their surfaces unmarred by cracks or seams.

  Seven towers speared upward from the walls, tall and thin, clawing at the sky. Red symbols were carved deep into the stone, old and angular, as if cut with intent rather than tools. They seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. And for a moment, Elrin thought the symbols shifted when he blinked.

  “You’ve never seen it before,” Rink said quietly, noticing Elrin’s shocked gaze. “Jindergahm,” he continued.

  The name felt heavy. The city did not resemble Jotun, nor any human settlement he had ever known. His vision blurred. He tore his gaze away, heart thudding, a faint pressure stirring in his chest as if something inside him recognized the place.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” said Rink, as though he read his mind. “They have no use for us in the city. We’re going there.” Using his toes, he pointed at the faint black smoke rising from behind Jindergahm.

  Their carriage took a sharp turn onto a beat-up path that looked barely suitable for walking, let alone a carriage. The wheels immediately protested, creaking and groaning as they dropped into deep ruts carved by years of neglect. The entire frame shook violently, throwing Elrin against the bars.

  “You’ll be meeting Lord Gunwald,” continued Rink, his voice barely audible over the loud grinding of wheels on rock. “I’d tell you to keep quiet no matter what happens, but I remembered you lost your tongue.”

  Lost my tongue—

  The boy had forgotten all about it. Dread crept into his mind as he realized he felt nothing at all where pain should have been. He wiggled his tongue around inside his mouth, and was able to reach his molars, but just barely.

  It felt as though a sharp tissue was scratching the inside of his mouth. This frightened Elrin more than the pain ever had.

  He couldn’t believe it. Frantically, he turned his ankles in to get a good look at the wound—it was missing flesh where he was bitten, but it was no longer bleeding, instead a patch of thick scar tissue covered the area.

  What is happening to me?

  First the uncontrollable rage, that searing heat that had nearly consumed him. And now this: his pain vanishing, wounds seemingly knitting themselves closed beneath his skin.

  “By the gods!” Rink breathed.

  Elrin looked up to find the old man staring at him, eyes wide with something between fear and certainty.

  Rink’s gaze darted to the demons surrounding the carriage. None of them were watching. Still, he moved quickly. “Hide those wounds,” he whispered urgently. “Cross your legs. Now.”

  Elrin obeyed.

  Rink leaned closer, lowering his voice further. “Your tongue,” he asked. “Can you speak?”

  “I think so,” Elrin murmured. Speaking still felt wrong, like raw flesh brushing bone.

  Rink swallowed. “I never thought I’d live to see another—” He stopped himself, the last word forming silently on his lips.

  Bloodkind.

  The thought unsettled Elrin. Bloodkind? That’s not right….

  “Listen to me,” Rink said with a quiet urgency. “No matter what happens, no matter who asks—never reveal your ability. Do you understand?”

  Elrin nodded.

  “I pity you,” Rink said quietly. “Your kind has always suffered the most.”

  The carriage began to climb, Baara grunting as he dragged it inch by inch up the mountain path. At the summit, a slender armored guard with large black ears blocked the way, his spear resting against his shoulder.

  “How many?” asked the guard.

  “One,” answered the hairless demon atop the carriage, “and another young one as a gift for Lord Gunwald.”

  The guard stepped aside.

  Rink glanced back at Elrin. “What’s your name?”

  “Elrin.”

  A faint smile tugged at the old man’s lips. “A mighty name.”

  The carriage rolled into an open plateau carved into the mountainside. Two massive black gates held the entrance to the mountain. Tents sprawled across the plateau in chaotic clusters, their fabric dyed in black and trimmed with red that looked disturbingly fresh.

  Some were small, barely large enough for two occupants. Others rose like grotesque pavilions, their peaks adorned with bones and tattered banners that snapped in the mountain wind. One tent near the center was massive enough to house several dozen occupants, its entrance flanked by iron braziers that belched black smoke into the sky.

  Demons stood watch everywhere.

  They lined the perimeter in loose formations, some humanoid, others not so much. Elrin spotted one with four arms sharpening a collection of curved blades. Another, easily twice Baara’s size, sat hunched near a cooking fire, tearing into something that might have once been an animal.

  Smaller demons scurried between tents, carrying supplies, dragging chains, shouting in their harsh, guttural language. The sound was overwhelming—a cacophony of snarls, barks, and cruel laughter that echoed off the mountain walls.

  The carriage rolled deeper into the encampment, and Elrin felt dozens of eyes tracking their movement. Some merely curious. Others hungry.

  Rink leaned close one last time.

  “They fear your kind, young boy,” he whispered. “Fear what Johanne did. Fear that someone else might rise from his ashes.” His voice dropped to a plea. “You must stay hidden and grow in the shadows.”

  Then, softer still:

  “Don’t die in vain.”

  The carriage door shrieked open. Baara’s massive hand reached in, severing the ropes binding their wrists with a single pull.

  “Get off, Yeluds!” barked the short demon.

  Elrin stumbled down first, his legs weak from confinement. As his feet hit the rocky ground, he saw them—a line of eight men standing in the shadow of the black gates. Hands shackled. Feet chained. A single rope threading through iron collars around their necks, binding them together like livestock.

  The bald demon seized Elrin by the arm, his claws digging in hard enough to bruise. The other grabbed Rink. They were dragged across the plateau toward the largest tent and released a few paces from the entrance.

  The demons moved on ahead and stood before the tent curtains. Their entire demeanor shifted. Gone was the casual cruelty, the barking commands. Now they wiped sweat from their heads with trembling hands, straightened their backs until their spines cracked, and puffed out their chests like soldiers before an inspection.

  “Lord Gunwald,” called out the bald demon, each word careful and measured. “Your humble servants beg for a moment of your time.”

  The wind died. The flames in the braziers flickered but made no sound. Even the distant cacophony of the camp seemed to hush. Everyone watched.

  Then the tent parted, as if drawn by an unseen hand. A voice spoke from within, slow and gentle. “The escapee stays.”

  A pause.

  “The young one goes.”

  Iron shackles snapped around Elrin’s wrists.

  Rink did not struggle. He met Elrin’s eyes and smiled as he was dragged inside the tent, mouthing the words:

  Don’t die in vain.

  Elrin never saw him again.

  Don't die in vain.