The Battlemage by Taran Matharu
“No, wait,” Othello growled, holding up his hand. “Look.”
The dark shapes were demons. At first they confirmed Fletcher’s suspicions that shamans were nearby, for there was a mishmash of species that would rarely be seen together. A shaggy-haired Canid stumbled over a tree root, its eyes fixed on the lights above. Three Lavellans, ratty rodents with poisonous fangs, followed in a line nearby. A dozen lesser Mites of varying colors trundled along the ground beside them, ranging in size from that of a weevil to a stag beetle.
There was even a Baku, a rare, pig-sized demon with an elephantine trunk and tusks, and the striped orange fur of a tiger. But all walked like the zombies of legend, mesmerized by the lights above.
“Will-o’-the-wisps,” Othello said, his brow creased in consternation. “We needn’t worry.”
“What do you mean?” Fletcher asked, shuffling back as the glowing specks of blue light neared the shell.
“They fill their translucent abdomens with wyrdlight and use it to move around, like tiny, limbless glow-worms.”
Even as Othello replied, Fletcher could see tiny motes of black beneath the lights.
“What are they doing?” Sylva whispered, waving her hand at one as it floated past.
“They’re leading them to their deaths,” Othello murmured.
The Canid knocked against Sheldon’s trunk-like leg, but it seemed not to notice, merely continuing on beneath the Zaratan’s belly.
“They mesmerize demons with their lights and lead them into swamps, or quicksand, or anywhere their victims will die. Then they feed on the corpses and lay their eggs. It’s probably why this area is so lifeless; it must be infested with them. Luckily, it only works on smaller wild demons.”
Fletcher shuddered and drew his coat closer around him. They had seemed so beautiful, yet their true purpose left a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He realized that Othello was the only one of the group to have had two years at Vocans, and the dwarf’s knowledge would be useful in the coming days. He only hoped that they would avoid the more dangerous demons of the ether.
The group watched in silence as the blue light faded, and the mesmerized demons disappeared into the gloom. Fletcher shuffled closer to his mother, but saw she was sleeping, curled up with Ignatius and Athena nestling beside her.
“We should have killed it,” Sylva murmured, so low that Fletcher could barely hear her over the dull thuds of Sheldon’s footsteps.
“Killed what?” he asked.
“The Baku,” she replied, pointing the way the demons had gone. “It’s a prey demon—low on the food chain. Plenty of meat on it too.”
“You want to eat demons?” Cress gasped, overhearing.
“You’ve been eating them since you got here, hell, even before you got here,” Sylva said, pointing at their dwindling supplies of petals. “Didn’t Electra say plants from the ether are technically demons too?”
“Yeah, but … it feels wrong,” Cress said, pulling Tosk to her chest and cuddling him protectively.
“Well, it’s either that or starve,” Sylva replied. “Unless Hominum’s part of the ether is around the corner—which it isn’t by the look of those mountains—we’re going to need to feed ourselves at some point.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone eating a demon before, although I hear shamans do it during some of their ceremonies,” Cress mused.
The thought of eating a demon had never crossed Fletcher’s mind. It repulsed him in some ways, but then, demons ate meat from his dimension. Why could he not do so in theirs?
“Fletcher, what do you reckon?” Othello said, watching his face as he mulled it over.
Fletcher grinned and shook his head ruefully, suddenly acutely aware of the hollowness in his empty stomach.
“Get some sleep,” he said, scooting over to his mother and lying himself out beside her. “Tomorrow, we hunt.”
CHAPTER
7
THE SKY WAS ALREADY DARKENING, and Fletcher’s stomach was cramping and gurgling, digesting nothing but the petal he had eaten a few hours ago. The team had been hunting all day, having been dropped off by Lysander several miles ahead of Sheldon’s path, but had found nothing. Now they had separated to cover more ground.
Fletcher had known hunger like this before, when winter had come early to Pelt and the mountain paths had been too icy for the traders to travel. Starvation had been staved off by hunting. Then and now, his senses were sharp, honed of desperation, but he was weaker and slower too. The difference was that in Pelt’s forests, a failed attempt meant another day of hunger. Here, it meant death.
Crouched in the shadow of a gnarled bush, Fletcher heard the thud of hooves in the damp soil nearby. Then a deep snort, and the soft rhythmic squelching of tissue being chewed to pulp. It was the first sign of life he had come across.
Fletcher dared to tread closer, placing one foot after another with care born of long practice. He dared not pull on his bow, for the creak of the string might give him away. Another step, and he pressed the arrow against the bow’s stock in case of clattering. Behind the thinning screen of the bush’s leaves, Fletcher saw his prey.
It was a hulking beast, as large as a buffalo and shaped like one too, with powerful shoulders between which grew a mane not unlike a wild horse’s. It had a tufted tail that switched back and forth, a sign of agitation that left Fletcher uneasy.
As if it sensed it was being watched, the beast swung its head low and to the side, snorting and sniffing, misting the air with its mucus.
Protected by no more than a few leaves and twigs, Fletcher froze, hoping desperately that the beast had poor eyesight. It had small red eyes, after all, with a piggish head resembling that of a warthog, but with a pair of curving horns on its brow and tusks that were far more prominent. Its snout was stained with green around the edges, and Fletcher could see a pile of nettles that it had been busy chewing on.
In that moment, he knew what he faced. This was no easy prey, though more high-level carnivores did hunt and eat them. But a human would be mad to attack one, even if he was starving and desperate. It was a Catoblepas.
The species ate only poisonous plants, for few other demons would consume them and so their fodder was plentiful. It could gore an attacker with tusk or horn, whichever came first, but even these were not the demon’s most potent weapons. No, it was the green-tinged saliva of the demon itself, where the natural toxins of the plants would concentrate. A bite was as good as a death sentence, and its misty breath was so poisonous that it would blind any attacker, or kill any that inhaled it. And now it was staring at Fletcher with its red, piggish eyes, and was turning slowly, its muscled haunches bunching and flexing with every slow, deliberate step.
A screech from above echoed through the trees—Athena, attempting to distract it. The noise did little more than stimulate a flick of the Catoblepas’s ears. Ignatius had been left with Sheldon to protect Alice, half a mile back. The others were hunting even farther afield. He and Athena were on their own.
The demon grunted, spraying a gout of steam from its nose. The moisture sizzled on the mulch of browning leaves that coated the ground.
Spells were not as effective against demons, and shields even less so, for the demonic energy that formed demons’ bodies was able to pass through them with ease. He thought of his pistols—they were both loaded, but the crash of gunfire might alert nearby shamans searching in the skies above of their presence. It would have to be the bow.
Ever so slowly, he eased back on his bowstring, taking the strain with his weakened muscles. He was bone tired, so much so that the arrowhead seemed to swim in and out of focus, twitching as the tendons in his arm seemed to clench and lock. Inch by inch, the bow creaked back, until it was at full draw. Still, he did not fire, even as the monster scraped the ground with a hoof, its hunched back a round silhouette against the fading dusk light.
The beast’s head was enormous, but Fletcher had a decision to make. The skull was too
Beneath, the broad chest presented an even larger target. The chances of an arrow passing its rib cage were better, but the beast might not die quickly. It could be enraged, charging him and goring his body to shreds before it collapsed. Then, as if it sensed his indecision, the Catoblepas bellowed and stampeded toward him.
Fletcher loosed the arrow, and the shaft jarred against his hand in flight. He dove aside, landing painfully among the roots of a nearby tree. It was not a moment too soon, for the monster tore through the thin screen of branches a half second later, snapping its jaws with fierce abandon.
There was blood on the soil; the arrow lodged deeply in the demon’s belly, hanging from it like a macabre umbilical cord. It was a gut wound, the kind that would take hours to kill.
With a guttural roar of pain the demon spun around, seeking its tormentor. Fletcher froze, still as a millpond. The beast snuffled the ground, a long tongue lapping at the soil as if to taste his path. It could not see him, for he was deep in the tree’s shadow and the last light of the sky was almost gone.
Fletcher reached for another arrow, but his hands met air. He looked over his shoulder to see the ammunition scattered out of reach behind him, his desperate dive having unseated his quiver from his back.
Cursing inwardly, he allowed his hand to stray to the handle of his khopesh. He did not draw it—the scrape of the blade in the scabbard would alert the beast. It would have to be in one motion, an all-or-nothing attack that would mean death for one or the other.
A hoot from above reminded him Athena was still there. He sensed her frantic desperation, and he knew Ignatius could too. Fletcher could feel that the little Salamander was running, but Fletcher had roamed too far ahead of Sheldon for rescue to arrive in time. Already the Catoblepas’s snout was finding his scent, and it was slobbering and grunting over the damp ground in his direction.
He needed it to turn away from him. One breath, one fleck of saliva, could kill him in an instant. Athena could … no, it was too risky.
But the Gryphowl sensed his idea, and suddenly she was gliding toward them. Fletcher ordered her to turn aside—he strained so hard that his eyes rolled into his head, but even as he wrested back control to turn her aside, Athena did the unthinkable. She folded her wings and dropped like a stone. There was a moment of blind panic, then she crashed into the beast’s side and flopped onto the ground. Fletcher’s mind received an order of her own.
Run.
The Catoblepas spun, spraying flecks of spit with a guttural bellow. They passed over Athena’s head, for she was flat on the ground, stunned by the collision with the beast’s barrel-like side.
Fletcher’s vision filled with the demon’s rear, its long tail whipping to and fro. He leaped to his feet and sprinted at the monster, drawing the khopesh from his scabbard midvault.
With a scream of anger he buried the blade deep into the Catoblepas’s spine and into the vitals beneath. His breath gusted out of him as he thudded onto the demon’s back. Only his grip on the sword’s handle kept him from falling off.
He could smell the raw, animal scent of the monstrosity below him as it bucked in agony. The wiry hair along its spine scraped against his hands as he twisted the blade, lurching to one side with every kick of the Catoblepas’s legs. A gout of toxic vapor was spewed into the air, but Fletcher was out of reach. He leaned on the blade with desperate abandon, until even the handle was buried halfway into the demon’s spine.
Then, with a soft, almost mournful lowing, the creature collapsed in a heap, and gusted its last, poison breath.
“Athena!” Fletcher yelled, sliding off the Catoblepas’s back onto the ground beside his fallen demon. One of her wings was crushed beneath the dead monster’s belly, but her eyes were open and full of life. With a snarl, he heaved against the corpse, spittle flecking from his mouth with the strain.
Athena managed to withdraw her wing, but Fletcher could feel her agony as she moved the delicate bones within, which had been fractured by the beast’s great weight. He released the body with a thud and knelt to gather her into his arms.
“Why?” he asked, cradling her broken body.
She gazed back at him, the love in her blue eyes telling him the answer.
CHAPTER
8
WHEN THE OTHERS EVENTUALLY FOUND HIM, he was still holding Athena in his arms. As Lysander helped drag the Catoblepas’s body to Sheldon, Fletcher began ministering to Athena’s wounds. He was glad to see she was not mortally injured, even if she would not be able to fly for a long while. Ignatius did all he could to comfort her, nuzzling her with his beak and lapping ineffectually at her injured wing, but his healing saliva could do nothing for broken bones and Fletcher could not risk the healing spell for fear of her bones setting crookedly.
He was tempted to infuse her and allow her to heal within him, but knew that her night vision would be needed soon—with the bloody carcass on the shell this would be the most dangerous night so far. No, they would have to do this the old-fashioned way.
With little hardwood nearby, he splinted her broken wing with the straight shaft from one of his arrows and strapped her wing to her side. She hobbled lopsidedly around the shell, miserable to be relegated to the ground. But she was not miserable for long, as their days of starvation were over and a feast was appearing before her eyes.
The carcass was butchered with their blades, separated into enormous haunches, cuts of dark flesh and piles of quivering organs. The intestines and other poisonous inedibles were removed carefully and buried some distance from their path, for the stench was dreadful and it would help prevent carrion eaters following in Sheldon’s wake.
The rest was carefully spread on the skinned pelt, which stretched so large that they could have made a tent from it.
Cooking the meat was essential, but they did not wish to start a fire directly on the Zaratan’s shell, for fear of hurting him. So, they piled earth high on the crest to insulate it and used the dry, punky branches that were scattered about the forest floor to start a serviceable fire.
The edible organs were eaten first, roasted over the flames on spits of greenwood that Fletcher had cut and shaved with his khopesh. Each had a different flavor: the liver dry and smooth, the kidneys rich and filling; even the heart was chewy but not unpleasant.
Herbivores Solomon and Tosk made do with foraging shoots from the forest around them, but meat eaters Lysander, Athena and Ignatius were ravenous and ate the lungs raw, even nibbling at the brain as they waited for their turn at the cooked meat. The sight of their bloodied beaks gorging on the unsightly flesh was almost enough to ruin Fletcher’s appetite. Almost.
The cuts of meat were devoured next, spitted in great lumps hacked hastily from the pile. The dark flesh was marbled with veins of butter-yellow fat that dripped sizzling into the cooking fire. Fletcher, Othello, Sylva, Cress and even Alice ate it while piping hot and chewed with overfilled mouths, tilting their heads and tearing at it with their teeth.
It was the best meal Fletcher had ever eaten. There were cuts from the legs and sides, back and rump. They dined like the finest nobles of Hominum, sampling each piece and marveling at the variance in texture and taste.
They reveled in the glow and heat from their small fire, for it was the only night they would allow themselves one in case it was seen from above. They ate in satisfied silence, filling it with the slurps and mastication that sounded more like dogs lapping at a bowl than civilized people at a meal.
Othello was the first to speak.
“Still think eating demons is wrong?” he mumbled, his mouth full.
Cress chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
“Nah, this thing is bloody delicious,” she said, continuing to gnaw at an enormous femur.
Fletcher collapsed on his back, groaning at his full stomach. He turned his head and surveyed the mountain of meat the
“What a waste,” Cress said, hurling the bone into the darkness and lying back beside him. “If we’re lucky we might get breakfast in the morning before it goes bad.”
“Aye,” Othello said, overhearing them. “That’s why I’m filling my belly. After what happened to Athena, I don’t want to hunt again until we have to. Feast and famine, that’s how it’ll have to be.”
They sat quietly for a time longer, then Sylva spoke.
“I wish we had a wood elf here,” she sighed, tugging off her boots and socks and wiggling her toes near the fire.
Fletcher grinned, remembering Othello had done the exact same thing, long ago, when they had sheltered from the rain in a shed after Sylva’s attempted assassination. There was a time when she might have turned her nose up at such behavior. How things changed.
“Why’s that then,” Cress asked, “and what’s the difference?”
“The wood elves are natural hunters, spending most of their lives on the Great Forest’s floor, tending our herds of deer and ranging many miles from our homeland. They would know how to preserve the meat, even the hide.”
“Fletcher, didn’t you do a bit of hunting back home?” Othello asked.
But Fletcher’s mind was already at work. He was no expert at tanning furs, for he simply provided them to the leatherworkers before the process began. But he knew how to dry the meat into jerky. He had done it at home, by Berdon’s hearth and furnace. Somehow it had seemed impossible out here, in the damp, alien forest.
“We’ll need more wood for the fire,” Fletcher said, sitting up. “But I think I can do both. It won’t be perfect—hell, it might not work at all, but I reckon it’s worth a shot.”
So, Fletcher set to work. It was tough in the darkness, for there was only the fire for guidance, but Fletcher had everything he needed nearby. He cut sturdy branches from low-hanging trees and constructed a tepee-like structure, using the Catoblepas’s tendons for binding. Then he latticed it with thin branches, to make a rack where strips of meat could be hung to dry.