Chapter Eight: Tacenda

Tacenda stumbled back as Crunchgnar roared and slammed the door shut. The tall, thick oak portal rattled as Crunchgnar—with Yledris’s help—rammed the bar into place. Crunchgnar then unhooked a small round shield from his back and slipped a wicked sword from its sheath. Yledris fell in beside him, spear held before her, wings stretching and then settling in a relaxed posture.

Miss Highwater peeked through a small window beside the doorway—the glass was thick, the opening narrow. “This is novel,” she said. “I’ve never been on this side of a church assault before.”

Davriel joined her, and Tacenda stepped up, but the window was too narrow for her to get a good view.

“Lord Greystone!” a woman’s voice shouted from just outside. “Do not pretend to hide! Our scout saw you inspecting your foul handiwork in this poor town. Your hour of reckoning has arrived! No longer will you terrorize the Approaches! Come out and submit to judgment in the name of the Archangel Sigarda and the host of cleansing!”

“Greystone,” Miss Highwater said. “That’s the alias you give when...”

“...I visit the prioress,” Davriel said, his expression darkening. “It grows increasingly obvious that she and I will need to have words. Can you get a count of how many are out there?”

“There are at least a dozen,” Miss Highwater said. “We shouldn’t have trouble fighting them unless they’ve brought some heavy magics.”

“Fighting them?” Tacenda said, stretching on her toes, trying to look over Miss Highwater’s shoulder to see out. “There’s no need to fight—just let me talk to them. Once I explain that you didn’t attack my village, they’ll probably want to help us save the people.”

Davriel and Miss Highwater shared a look.

“She’s sweet,” Miss Highwater said. “It will be fun watching her get disillusioned.”

Tacenda blushed. “I’m not naive. But those are good people out there. Heroes. Surely we can talk to them.”

“There’s no such thing as good people,” Davriel said. “Just incentives and responses.” A bright red light flashed through the window. “Ah! They brought a pyromancer. That might prove convenient. Also, take cover.”

He turned and ran for the nearby pews, leaping over them with shocking spryness. Miss Highwater followed, and Tacenda gaped for a moment, then ran.

The door exploded.

The shock wave slammed Tacenda against a wooden pew. A spray of burning splinters fluttered through the room, trailing smoke. Crunchgnar bore it without flinching, his shield blocking some of the debris.

Soldiers bearing the new church symbol—in the shape of a heron’s head—flooded the room. They wore stark white tabards, bound at the waist with thick buckles. Crunchgnar and Yledris engaged them immediately, and though outnumbered, the demons loomed over the smaller humans.

Davriel dusted some splinters from his clothing, then settled into a chair beside the fountain—one with a view of the fight—and put his feet up.

Tacenda scrambled over to him, her ears ringing from the explosion. “Aren’t you going to do something? Can’t you freeze them, like you did me?”

“That spell has faded,” he said. “I’ll need to steal something new before I can intervene in this.”

A thump sounded outside as the other flying demon—Gutmorn—landed and attacked the soldiers from behind, causing those nearest the door to turn around, shouting. Most of the soldiers were outfitted in similar uniforms, though their leader was obviously that woman with the long black hair and the silver lining to her coat. She edged to the side of the demons, holding a longsword, watching for an opening.

Beside her, a man in leathers carried a large canister on his back, glowing with a deep red light. Tacenda had never seen anything like it before, but tubes extended from it along his arms, down to his hands. The pyromancer?

I have to do something to stop this, Tacenda thought as Crunchgnar swept a soldier aside with his shield, then hacked at another one—killing the poor woman. The demon took a spear to the side however, and cried out in agony.

“Stop!” Tacenda shouted, though her voice was lost in the ruckus. “Stop! Let me explain!”

The woman with the long hair glanced at her, then pointed. “Deal with his thrall.”

A soldier dashed toward Tacenda. She backed up a few steps, anxious. “Listen to me,” she said. “Lord Davriel didn’t do this. We’re trying to find out what happened. Just listen—”

The soldier swiped his sword at Tacenda, who scrambled away, climbing back over a pew. “Please,” she said. “Just listen.”

The man rounded the pews. Nearby, a body went rolling past, thrown by one of the demons. The entire church building was a cacophony of grunting demons, shouting men, and ringing metal. They fought without taking note of the bodies of the villagers on the floor, other than to stumble over them occasionally. It was madness!

The soldier lunged for Tacenda again, but she stayed among the pews, quicker than he was. He stopped in the aisle, then held his hand to the side, light gathering there. Tacenda froze, worried. Magic?

The man suddenly screamed, the light in his hand vanishing. He fell to his knees, holding his head in agony.

“Ah!” Davriel said. “Curious.”

Tacenda glanced at him, noting the red smoke fading from his eyes. She glanced back at the soldier. Davriel had...stolen a spell or talent? From the man’s mind?

She backed away, stopping near Davriel’s seat.

“What did you get?” Miss Highwater was asking.

“A summoning charm,” he said. “Not terribly powerful, but flexible. It brings the most recently touched weapon to hand. I suspect that soldier was summoning a crossbow to deal with Miss Verlasen.”

Another round of shouts came from the soldiers, who backed away as Yledris took to the air, sweeping about with her spear. Three men with crossbows, however, launched a row of bolts with strange chains on them, meant to damage wings. That dropped Yledris back to the ground, where men came at her long goatlike legs with axes.

Davriel narrowed his eyes, then pointed at one of the men, who stumbled and screamed, holding his head. Gutmorn pushed into the room and speared the man through the neck.

Tacenda turned aside, wincing. “We shouldn’t have to do this,” she said. “They’re on our side.”

“They’ve seen demons, child,” Davriel said. “They won’t talk or listen now.”

“They’re good people.” As he started to respond, she cut him off. “There is such a thing. I’ve known many a good and humble person.”

“Products of social conditioning and moral incentives,” Davriel said absently. He pointed again, and another man screamed.

“Anything good?” Miss Highwater asked.

“No,” Davriel said. “The minds of these are about as useful as bent spoons.” Davriel eyed the man with the fire machinery, then pointed directly at him. Nothing seemed to happen though, and Davriel grunted.

“What?” Miss Highwater asked.

“He’s got wards upon his mind,” Davriel said, frowning. “Ones that seem specifically intended to block me.”

Crunchgnar roared as he took a hit to the back, and dark blood poured down his leather armor. Most of the soldiers still fought in this open space at the rear of the room, between the doors and the pews, where the three demons fought with increasing desperation as they were surrounded.

“They’re being hurt,” Tacenda said. “The soldiers are killing them!”

“Yes, that’s literally why I keep them around,” Davriel said. He stood up and pointed once more at the man with the pyromancy gear, but again nothing seemed to happen.

“Can you even steal anything from him?” Tacenda asked. “He’s using machinery.”

“He’s augmenting with geistflame, but he’ll have innate power to control and maybe ignite the fire,” Davriel said. “My best chance will be right at the moment of ignition...”

“Dav,” Miss Highwater said. “There at the back, near the doors. Do you see that bearded man?”

Tacenda squinted, picking out a man who had entered the church behind the fighting, then set an enormous tome on the floor before him. “That one is called Gutmorn,” the old man shouted, his voice carrying over the fray. “The winged one with the wounded leg. He is a demon of the Devrik Depths! Feaster upon souls, tormentor of the seven princes!”

“They brought a church diabolist,” Davriel said. “How cute.”

“Hell,” Miss Highwater said. “Somebody kill him. Crunchgnar! Stab that bearded guy!”

But Crunchgnar was flagging. Fully half of the soldiers were down, but he’d been cut up badly. The other two demons put their backs to one another, lashing out with spears, but they too were slowing. Bleeding dark blood on the floor.

“That is Yledris Bloodslave!” the old man shouted. “The other winged demon, also from the Devrik Depths. They are not immune to fire, Grart! The tome is certain!”

So much death. So much pain. Again, it threatened to overwhelm her. Uncertain what else to do, Tacenda stepped forward, and found herself humming. Maybe...maybe it would help? To sing?

“You’ll just see them dead if you do that,” Davriel said. “Your ward will stun the demons and let the soldiers finish them off. A demon has no soul; destroy it, and it is gone forever.”

Tacenda hesitated. Surely there was a way to stop this. Surely there was a way to make them—

Hands seized her from the side and shoved her to the ground. She gasped—she’d been so focused on the demons, she hadn’t seen the woman with the long hair, who had snuck up along the pews. Dazed, Tacenda rolled over as the woman thrust her hands toward Davriel, her eyes glowing, a powerful blue and white light forming in front of her.

Davriel shoved Miss Highwater aside. A blast of light exploded from the demon hunter and washed over him, like a column of purity, tinged faintly blue.

“And now you shall finally rest, immortal monster!” the woman shouted.

The light faded, leaving Davriel standing there in his puffy shirt, purple cravat, and long cloak. He blinked several times, his eyes watering. “Well, that was unpleasant.”

The woman gaped, lowering her hands.

“Unfortunately for you,” he said, “I’m quite human.”

“There!” said the old man with the book, pointing toward Miss Highwater, who’d stumbled and fallen as Davriel had shoved her out of the way. “Do not ignore the demon that has the form of a comely woman! That is Voluptara, Feaster of Men! Known as one of the most dangerous and wily of demons of the Nexrix Flame Expanse!”

Tacenda blinked, sitting up. “Vol...Voluptara?”

“Oh, hell,” Miss Highwater said. “He found it.”

A roaring heat came from behind Tacenda, and she turned, scrambling to her feet. The man in red—finally in the right position to not hit any of his friends—had come alight with fire. He cackled, launching a blaze from his tubed hands.

It engulfed Yledris completely. A terrible, raging inferno jet that—when it finally faded—left only bones and some buckles. Gutmorn screamed in agony, a shockingly human sound, while the remaining soldiers cheered.

Their leader turned back to face Davriel again and raised her hands to summon her light, as if to try to prove to herself that it would work this time.

“I believe,” Davriel said, “that is enough.”

He pointed, stabbing his fingers toward the lead woman. Her light went out and she screamed, falling to her knees. Again, Tacenda noted that Davriel himself winced in pain as he stole the woman’s power—as if he shared in her agony.

Davriel dealt with the pain far better than the woman. He kicked her aside, and Miss Highwater leaped forward, producing a knife from her belt. She dealt with the unfortunate woman, and Davriel picked his way toward the demons.

Another soldier came for Davriel, but he snapped his fingers—red smoke clouding his eyes—and his cane appeared in his hand.

The summoning spell, Tacenda thought, backing away. The one that brings him a weapon. He’d summoned the cane from where he’d left it beside the altar. With a smooth motion, Davriel whipped the sheath off, revealing a long slender blade inside.

The soldier stabbed at Davriel, who didn’t dodge, but instead lunged forward in a dueling stance, driving his sword straight through the soldier’s neck. The man scored a hit on Davriel, stabbing him through the side—but Davriel didn’t seem to mind. He slid his sword from the man’s neck as he stumbled and died.

The pyromancer roared, turning his weapon on Davriel. But the lord seemed to have been waiting for this—for as the pyromancer focused on charging up his flames, Davriel stabbed his fingers at the man.

The fire went out, and the man stumbled as if he’d been punched. Then he looked befuddled as he inspected his tubes. A second later, a blast of flame from Davriel’s hand vaporized him, along with a large swath of pews behind.

The remaining three soldiers had seen enough. They scrambled away out the door, leaving a bleeding Crunchgnar and Gutmorn among the corpses. The demons sagged under the weight of their wounds, sighing. That left only the old man with his tome, who was still kneeling on the floor, frantically flipping pages. He slowed as he looked up and found Davriel standing above him.

The church had again become quiet. Silent, save for the crackling of flames from burning pews. Davriel loomed over the old man, then rubbed his fingers together, causing a small flame to rise between them.

Tacenda gasped, then dashed across the room and grabbed Davriel by the arm. “No,” she said. “Just let him go.”

Davriel didn’t respond. His eyes clouded red, with no pupils, and he seemed a demon himself standing there.

“What do you gain by killing him?” Tacenda asked.

“His words cost me a valuable servant,” Davriel said. “I’m simply...responding to incentives. Let’s see if you have any useful talents, old man.”

He stabbed his fingers forward, and the old man screamed, holding his head. This time, Davriel didn’t so much as flinch. But he also held the moment, as if continuing to invade the man’s mind, driving the pain deeper and deeper. The old man writhed in agony.

“Please,” Tacenda said. “Please.”

Davriel glanced at her, held for a moment, his eyes clouding a deep grey-black. Then he snapped his fingers.

The old man collapsed, groaning, but his immediate pain seemed to have ended.

Davriel picked up the old tome and handed it to Miss Highwater, who was tucking away her knife. The old man managed to climb to his feet, and Davriel didn’t do anything to prevent him from fleeing out the door.