Rides A Dread Legion. Raymond E. Feist

and charged.

      The demon’s spell casting was interrupted as Brandos drew his buckler up against his left shoulder and rammed it into the creature’s chest. It felt like hitting a stone wall, but it threw the demon backwards a few feet and allowed Brandos just enough time to pull away before a massive clawed hand decapitated him.

      Brandos lashed out with his sword, striking the demon’s exposed arm. Again, the touch of enchanted steel caused a smoking wound and the demon cried out in rage. As he pulled back to stand before Amirantha, Brandos shouted, ‘It’s a first-time visitor to Midkemia; no protection spell in place to prevent harm from cold metal.’

      With practised fluidity, Brandos let go of the hand-grip on his buckler, and allowed it to dangle on his arm; then he tossed his sword from his right hand to his left, catching it with his now free hand, as he drew a dagger from his right hip. He threw the blade with as much force as possible, impaling the demon’s right foot and pinning it to the floor. Black smoke and a sulphurous stench filled the cave and the conjured creature screamed. Then it fell silent, regarding the two humans with its glowing red eyes, and calmly resumed its incantation.

      ‘Now would be a good time to finish,’ said Brandos, flipping his sword back into his right hand as he slipped his left back into the strap on his buckler. ‘This fellow is bloody determined!’

      Amirantha had less than a moment to make his choice; he could continue his spell of banishment and risk Brandos being struck with a potentially lethal blast of magic, or abandon it and employ a spell he had prepared against such dangers.

      His affection for his friend overcame the desire to finish in an orderly fashion and he ceased his conjuration, shouting, ‘Close your eyes!’

      Brandos did not need to be told twice. He immediately crouched behind the small protection of his buckler as well as he could, and covered his eyes.

      Amirantha closed his eyes as he incanted a five-syllable word, and unleashed a very powerful and destructive energy bolt. The warlock knew, from painful experience, that the energy carried within the crimson bolt, which flew out of his upraised hand to strike the demon, would pour into the creature through its skin, and set it alight from within.

      They felt a sudden flash of searing heat, lasting mere seconds, but hot enough to scorch the hair on Brandos’s arm. The stench of something foul cooking filled the tunnel and assaulted their nostrils. Then it was silent.

      Brandos let his arms drop to his side as he let out a long sigh. ‘I wish you didn’t have to do that.’

      ‘So do I,’ returned Amirantha. ‘An orderly banishment is so less taxing—’

      ‘—And painful,’ interrupted the fighter, as he inspected his singed arm.

      ‘And less painful,’ agreed Amirantha, ‘than destroying the demon.’

      Shaking his head and letting out another long sigh, Brandos said, ‘Have you ever considered that conjuring demons so you can be paid to banish them might not be the best use of your talents?’

      Smiling ruefully, Amirantha said, ‘Occasionally, but how else can I earn the coin necessary to broaden my knowledge of the demon realm? I’ve learnt as much as I can from those creatures we’re more familiar with.’

      ‘Speaking of which, why didn’t one of them show up?’

      Amirantha shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I sought to conjure Kreegrom … He’s almost my pet now.’

      Brandos nodded. ‘Ugly as sin. Have him chase you a bit where the Governor’s men can see him. Let him follow you back inside, give him a treat and send him back. Good plan.’ He fixed his friend with a scowling gaze. ‘If it had worked!’

      ‘I didn’t think I was conjuring a battle demon.’

      ‘A magic-using battle demon,’ corrected Brandos, as he sheathed his sword.

      ‘A magic-using battle demon,’ echoed Amirantha. He looked into the tunnel, now filled with noxious, oily black smoke. Charred demon flesh decorated the walls and floor of the tunnel and the smell was enough to make a battle-tested veteran vomit. The creature’s left leg lay on the floor only a few feet away from them. ‘Let us collect our fee from the Governor, remove ourselves from this quaint province and return home.’

      ‘Home?’ asked Brandos. ‘I thought we’d head north for a bit, first.’

      ‘No,’ said Amirantha. ‘There’s something about this that is both familiar and troubling, something I need ponder in my own study, with my own volumes for reference. And it’s the safest place for us to be right now.’

      ‘Since when did you concern yourself with safety?’ asked the old fighter.

      ‘Since I recognized a familiar … presence behind that demon.’

      Brandos closed his eyes for a moment, as if weighing what he had just heard. ‘I’m not going to like this next part, am I?’

      ‘Probably not,’ said Amirantha inspecting the contents of his belt bag to note what would have to be replaced. ‘When the demon exploded, a series of magic … call them signatures, hallmarks of spellcraft, tumbled away. Most were my own, from the wards and spells I had fashioned, save two. One was the demon’s, which I expected, alien and unfamiliar, but the last belonged to another player.’ He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘A player with a signature as familiar to me as my own.’

      Brandos had been with Amirantha for most of his life and had heard many stories from the Warlock. He could easily anticipate what was coming next. Softly, Brandos asked, ‘Belasco?’

      Amirantha nodded. ‘Belasco.’

      ‘Bloody hell,’ the old fighter swore quietly. His face was a map of sun-brown leather, showing years of privation and struggle. His hair, once golden blond, had been grey for more than two decades, but his startling blue eyes were still youthful. Shaking his head, he said, ‘The one thing about travelling with you, Amirantha, is that things are always interesting.’

      ‘You find the oddest things interesting,’ said Amirantha.

      ‘Comes from the company I keep,’ said Brandos.

      Amirantha could only nod. They had been together for a long time. He had found Brandos as a street urchin in the city of Khaipur, nearly forty-two years ago. Now, despite being years older than his companion, the warlock looked twenty years his junior. Both men knew that the magic user would outlive the fighter by a generation, yet they never spoke of it, except upon occasion when Brandos quipped that Amirantha’s proclivities would end up getting him killed before his time. Despite appearances, Brandos looked upon Amirantha as a father.

      How a practitioner of a particularly dark form of magic had come to play the role of foster father to an illiterate street boy was still a bit of a mystery to Amirantha, but somehow Brandos had insinuated his way into the magic user’s affections and they had been together ever since.

      Amirantha led Brandos past the charred remains of the demon to the summoning cave and picked up two large leather bags, handing one to the fighter. Both men shouldered their burdens. Looking around at the overturned ward stones, the burning pots of incense, and the other accoutrements of demon summoning, the Warlock said, ‘I’m not criticizing, but what brought you into the cave?’

      ‘You were taking a bit longer than normal and the Governor was getting restless. Then that noise erupted so I thought I’d best go and see what had gone awry.’

      Shaking his head slightly, the Warlock said, ‘Good thing you did.’

      They exited the cave, a deep recess in the hillside a few miles away from the village of Kencheta. Waiting astride his ornately saddled horse was the Governor of Lanada, who said, ‘Is the demon dead?’

      Raising his hand in an indifferent salute to the ruler of the region, Amirantha said, ‘Most efficiently dead, Your Excellency. You will find his remains scattered around the tunnel about a hundred yards within.’