Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [114]
Demascus ignored the half-baked liturgy. It didn’t matter what lies Kalkan was spewing. All that mattered was that Demascus fulfill his contract, and if possible, survive it too.
He drew Exorcessum and ghosted over the press along the lane of shadow thrown by the altar itself. There was no clear place to stand, save the altar top, so that’s where he appeared, like an avenging angel.
He was face-to-face with the figure and the daylight illuminated what lay within its hood: a furred mask of hunger that bespoke sin so profound that it forever marked the body.
Shock like a crashing glacier froze Demascus in place, his runesword raised high for the killing stroke that never came.
“You’re a rakshasa!” said Demascus, his voice hoarse with the revelation.
The creature arrayed in priestly garb before him had once been like himself, an angel in mortal guise. But when a deva gives in to iniquity to become a fallen star, its soul is corrupted, forever. Like a deva, a rakshasa is bound to the world, and returns to it after each death, its soul freighted with more evil each time. But unlike a deva, a rakshasa remembers its former lives, branded forever with the knowledge of what it’s done.
Shouts of surprise went up from the surrounding crowd.
Kalkan threw back his headdress and bared his teeth in a horrible tiger grin. He said, “Right on time, Demascus. You’re nothing if not predictable.”
“You know who I am?” Demascus stuttered. “That … that I would come here?”
“What kind of disciple of the Voice of Tomorrow would I be if I didn’t know you were going to show up to disrupt our ceremony?”
A murmur of appreciation rustled through the gathered celebrants. But …
Oghma’s scroll charm still woven into Demascus’s hair trembled. Kalkan was lying!
That tiny revelation shattered the icy shock that immobilized him upon seeing Kalkan’s nature. The rakshasa knew him, and perhaps even had set a trap for him, despite how inconceivable that seemed. But the lie Kalkan just mouthed revealed that he was capable of being defeated. A lie was a shield used to hide one’s own weakness.
“A god requires your death and I am the Sword,” Demascus said, his voice sharp and loud as a ballista shot. He swept Exorcessum down at an angle that passed in through the rakshasa’s neck, down through his sternum, and out through the creature’s ribs on the opposite side.
Kalkan staggered backward a step and fell to the ground. The celebrants that had gathered close uttered a squall of surprise and distress as they scattered like autumn leaves.
Demascus jumped down. His shadow stretched long over his stricken target.
Kalkan coughed, and blood darkened the fur around his mouth. The rakshasa gasped out, “You surprised me, Demascus. I … didn’t expect you to regain your wits so quickly. I wonder …” He coughed again, then continued, “Was it Oghma’s charm that saved you? The Binder has proved an uncommonly sagacious distraction … Usually it’s all you can do to blink your eyes in stupefaction when you see me. During which time, I spit you like a pig for the fire.”
“Usually?” The world seemed to tilt, and threatened to spill Demascus to the ground next to the dying rakshasa. “What’re you talking about?”
Kalkan’s chuckle was interrupted by another bloody cough. When the fit passed, he rasped out, his vowels bubbling, “Only that I’ve seen you before, Demascus, even though you do not remember. So many times I’ve lured you, hunted you, and achieved my divine directive … so many I’ve lost count. And I’ll see you again.”
Then Kalkan died. The creature’s hood flared with blue light, so bright Demascus was forced to look away. When he looked back, the hood, the odd disk, and Kalkan’s body were all gone. All that remained was a mound of gray ash.
Demascus sank to his knees next to the pile.
Merciful lords, he thought, what has Oghma gotten me into?
No, that wasn’t right—Oghma was only Demascus’s latest divine patron. If Kalkan’s words were true, the rakshasa had hunted