Shimmer: A Novel (35 page)

Then tragedy struck.

Chapter 47

The demon lord had many names, all of them earned through inflicted terror. In his own guttural tongue, he was known as Urgh’uh’Dohth, which roughly translated as “Walking Death” or “Death Has Come.” On the human world, he had several names, including Lacerator, Render, and Carnifex, the Reaper of Flesh. With domination of the human world once again his goal, he would don his human name, like a new tunic of vanquished flesh. Humans were soft and short-lived but also plentiful. His appetite for destruction would be satisfied for centuries to come. Best of all, their terror would be fresh. Many human generations had passed since his last successful incursion. None alive would remember him and the fear he had wrought in their world. But soon none alive would ever forget him. For the rest of their meager lives, they would exist in fear of the moment his path crossed theirs. And the time was almost at hand. The sacrifices were complete, the blood price paid. He would step into their world again soon.

First, though, he had to handle a minor nuisance. Those of the old human line had detected his plan, had interfered with his raids, and, finally, had followed him to his own world. Two of them were hardly worth his notice. Once before the old line had repelled him, but then they had sent two score against him and lost half that number before the battle’s end. And that had been on the human world. But now, to field two against the dreaded might of Urgh’uh’Dohth in his own land, their numbers must be severely depleted. Either that or they were fools.

He had treated them with the contempt they deserved, sending lesser, weak-minded creatures to do his bidding. After those assaults had failed, Carnifex—the name by which they would know him—decided to settle the matter himself.

Once he ripped the flesh from their bones, he could turn his full attention to widening the portal to their overripe world. With the blood price paid, he would need only a few of their hours to create the portal. Soon he would have the exact time and location he needed to pay the second blood price, to secure his foothold and ensure his dominion over them.

Leaving his cavernous lair, he crossed the barren plane at a swift pace, sensing their otherness, the allure of their life essence, and with each step his ravenous appetite grew. He began to hope they would survive the betraying ground and consuming lava. But not enough to interfere. He wanted them to continue to struggle, for every step, and every breath, until their fear reached maddening levels.

Long before he spied them, he smelled their human fear and, unconsciously, his pace quickened. At last they noticed his approach and stopped, turning to face him.

One of them, a female judging by her garb, hid behind a rock while the other one stood his ground, in a warrior’s stance, ready to fight. That one would die first, and never hear the female’s screams. Carnifex attacked without hesitation, aiming to slice the male’s head from his body—and missed!

The human warrior was unnaturally quick for his kind, dexterous enough to avoid Carnifex’s axe, and adept enough with the sword to penetrate his defenses and draw blood. The wound burned worse than its depth should have allowed. Another surprise! Not only was the human warrior much faster than Carnifex had expected, he was armed with an otherworld blade.

Carnifex’s continued exposure to the human-world portal had rendered him virtually impervious to weapons made of that world. But magic and weapons wrought of materials from other worlds could cause him serious or lasting damage. Even on Urgh’uh’Dohth’s home world! He should have expected such a tactic from one of the old line. A painful oversight, perhaps, but not a fatal one.

Naturally, the battle soon turned in Carnifex’s favor. With the human prone on the ground, Carnifex turned to crush him underfoot. But the female surprised him. She was a spell-caster. He should have guessed. If not a warrior, a spell-caster. Another mistake. Her magical burst of light robbed his vision. The warrior harried him with blow after burning blow, and Carnifex held him at bay as much as possible, waiting for his eyes to clear.

Blurred vision returned just as the human warrior prepared to attempt a killing strike. The human jumped straight up, aiming the point of his sword at Carnifex’s throat in a desperate maneuver that exposed his own torso. If the blindness had lingered a moment longer, the human might have inflicted serious damage. Unfortunately for the human, Carnifex was ready for the attack. He raised the battle-axe, which he’d been holding defensively in a crosswise position, up and out to block the sword. At the same moment, he formed a clawed tentacle in his proto-flesh and lashed out with it, sinking newly formed pincers into the human’s chest and cracking several ribs.

The human screamed and swung his sword in a downward arc fast enough to lop off the tentacle before Carnifex could rip the beating heart from his chest. Falling to his back, the warrior howled in pain, rolled into a kneeling position and ripped the severed tentacle free of his chest.

Carnifex reabsorbed the stump of proto-flesh and stepped forward, brandishing his battle-axe in one hand now. The injured warrior grimaced in pain. He stood and staggered backward. The fight had not gone entirely from him, but it leaked away with his life’s blood. Carnifex rushed forward. The man’s sword arm came around in a wide arc, gaining momentum for a strong blow to Carnifex’s left arm. Carnifex surprised him by swinging the battle-axe upward from down low. The curved blade sliced into the man’s arm where it joined the shoulder—and lopped off the entire limb!

The female spell-caster screamed in a delightful combination of horror and fear. Obviously she sensed her own doom approaching. And she was not wrong.

The human warrior groaned in agony, his face white with pain and shock, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“You are a fool to believe this could have ended differently, human,” Carnifex said in a booming voice. “I am Urgh’uh’Dohth, a lord of this domain!”

Shaking his head in denial, the defeated warrior pressed his left hand against the bleeding stump and staggered sideways as if the missing weight of the severed appendage cost him his balance. Each step brought him closer to the female spell-caster’s position behind the boulder. If he could not protect himself with two arms, how could he hope to protect her with one? And without a weapon!

To stoke their fear, in prelude to what would come next, Carnifex plucked the severed arm off the ground, smiling in hideously snaggletoothed delight as the otherworld sword fell from the useless hand. He raised the grimy arm to his broad mouth and ripped into the raw flesh with gusto. “You’ve succeeded in one thing, human,” Carnifex said, spewing bits of gore with each word, “whetting my appetite!” He roared with laughter.

Seemingly unperturbed by watching a demon lord eat of his flesh, the human darted forward, snatched the fallen sword from the ground with his remaining hand, and returned to his position beside the female.

Carnifex had no fear of a bit of useless bravado. The human’s face was ashen. Blood leaked from the pincer wounds in his chest, and ran freely from the shoulder stump, soaking his right side. His strength would pour out of him as quickly. Defeated, even if he refused to acknowledge it.

Carnifex flung the half-eaten arm beyond them, into the nearest crevasse, to be absorbed into the river of lava deep below. “Enjoy your shiny prize while you can. Soon I will butcher you with that otherworld weapon.”

“Dream on, asshole!”

Carnifex laughed. “No. First I will butcher the female, while you watch. Then it will be your turn to suffer my wrath.” The demon lord glanced at the female, seeking the light of heightened fear in her eyes, but in that he was disappointed. Her face was blank. In shock, he assumed. Not even looking at him. With her forearms raised in a feeble semblance of self-protection, she simply stared into space. Sometimes their minds switched off like that. Couldn’t be helped. Regardless of her mental capacity, he would butcher her first, if only to watch the fallen warrior’s expression of dread and dismay. A small feast, true, but satisfying enough to sustain him until the portal opening. He took two thunderous steps forward—

—the woman screamed, but not at his approach.

With a screeching sound of protest, the betraying ground ripped open, forming an instant fissure beneath the humans’ feet, like a hungry maw spreading wide to gobble their flesh in one quick bite. The spell-caster managed to grab the injured warrior, but they both tumbled down the chasm, their bodies colliding with spurs of rock and spinning end over end until they splashed into the winding river of lava far below.

Carnifex grunted his displeasure. He’d had no more than a taste of flesh, one satisfying stroke of destruction. Hardly the meal anticipated mere moments ago, but he would not mourn too long. In hours he would have a feast beyond anything he had ever imagined, served on a platter and enjoyed without interruption.

Placing the shaft of his battle-axe over his shoulder, he turned away from the humans’ fiery grave and lumbered across his barren land, occupying his mind with visions of their bountiful world and the coming harvest of fear.

Chapter 48

After a fitful night of disturbing dreams interspersed with tossing and turning, Logan rose, showered, and dressed in a short sleeved canary yellow cotton shirt, jeans and Timberlands. He stood by his end table, picked up the red-handled dagger in its black scabbard, and examined it for a moment. Mostly flat, for balance. No fancy scrollwork or embedded gems. Unremarkable in every way except one that mattered most to Walker warriors: its composition. He never considered himself a warrior. Gideon admitted that Logan needed training. But desperate times had met desperate measures. Though he felt a bit foolish, he looped his belt through the scabbard’s buckle, slid the dagger home, and fastened the cross guard snap to hold it in place. As far as his supernatural sense was concerned, today was just another day. But after the events of yesterday, common sense told him to expect the worst.

The family, along with Chief Grainger, had discussed the incident on Kings Highway and its possible ramifications well into the early morning hours. Gideon, Ambrose, and Grainger had done most of the talking. They had dropped Fallon off at her house before returning home. Thalia, exhausted after her rift hunting collapse, had fought to sit upright in one of the leather wingchairs, yawning continually, until Ambrose insisted she get some sleep. Lacking the energy to muster a respectable protest, she had waved goodnight to the others and left for her room.  And, finally, Logan had been too depressed and riddled with guilt—about dragging Fallon into the madness that was his family’s life—to offer much substance to the animated conversation. As usual, his psychic warning had come too late and had been too vague to avert disaster. He consoled himself with the thought that the night could have been worse and that maybe next time Gideon would listen to him. For someone who relied on preternatural reflexes, Gideon was certainly reluctant to trust somebody else’s instincts. Maybe Gideon saw him as a kid, an inexperienced Walker. If so, then why entrust him with the dagger? Gideon had been eager to rejoin the battle and refused to let anything stand in his way. Logan imagined he was more worried about Barrett than he chose to admit. But Logan couldn’t help wonder if there was more to Gideon’s actions than he perceived. Barrett blamed himself for Gideon’s injury and acted as if he needed to prove himself in battle, but Gideon had no reason to feel inadequate.

Logan walked down the hall to check on Thalia, his stride feeling more purposeful in the Timberlands. He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen boots over sneakers, certainly not for greater comfort, stealth or speed, but the decision felt right. And Walkers tried not to engage in second guessing.

He knocked on the doorjamb, but Thalia was awake, lying in Liana’s bed and wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, then seemed to notice her rumpled attire and frowned. “Guess I was too tired to change,” she said, finger combing her long blond hair away from her face. “Not that I slept all that well.”

“Same here,” Logan said. “Hard to rest when…”

She patted the bed beside her. “Come. Sit. Talk.”

He plopped down beside her, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. “I always feel helpless,” he said. “But never as much as now.”

“Logan,” she said gently. “Sometimes we all feel that way.”

“It’s different for you,” he said. “You’re a sorceress. Gideon’s a warrior. I’m a… what? A trouble compass.”

“We do what we can do, Logan,” Thalia said. “I failed last night. And Gideon had nothing to fight. At least you warned me before…”

“Before what?”

Thalia looked at him and he saw fear in her hazel eyes. She clasped her hands between her knees, but he saw them trembling. “I think you saved me. Possibly Fallon as well.”

“I was too late,” Logan said. “And Gideon stopped me from interfering.”

“I remember hearing your voice,” Thalia said with conviction. “Until that moment I hadn’t sensed the malevolence, but it was there. Waiting. Like a bear trap. But I heard you, your voice penetrating my trance. At that last moment, I was able to shield myself from the worst of it.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pulled him toward her into a sideways hug. “You never give yourself enough credit.”

“Thanks.”

“We need you, Logan. Someday you’ll prove that to your own satisfaction.”

He smiled. “You think so?”

“Don’t be so happy about that,” she said. “When that day comes, your life and the lives of others will probably hang in the balance.”

“You’re just being melodramatic.”

“On a good day our lives are melodrama,” she said. “On the bad days…” She left the thought incomplete, but punctuated it with a shudder. “I’d better take a shower. Feel wrapped in cobwebs today.”

She slapped her knees, stood, and walked to the doorway as if her legs ached from the effort. Sighing, she ran a hand through her tangled hair, and again Logan noticed the trembling. “It’s weird,” she said softly. “Not a drop to drink last night but I feel hung-over.”