A Clash of Demons Read online

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  ‘In case I was wrong.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘It’s a wonder you have any friends.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Trix could’ve landed her ship next to the convoy, but she wanted to walk. Time to familiarise yourself with a planet was helpful when hunting monsters, for each one was different. A planet’s gravity might be heavier or lighter. Its air an unusual composition.

  Mostly, it was nice to wander.

  2

  Trix of Zilvia exited the tree line.

  Djiemlur’s forests were not dense. They largely made way for sprawling plains. The djurel convoy was arranged in a circle with common ground in the middle. All caravans were decorated with painted symbols and trimmed with wood. Adults smoked on porch steps. Children leapt from rooftop to rooftop. Others tousled in the flaxen grass which brushed Trix’s knees. Some hauled snow in buckets from elsewhere on the plain. A snowball fight ensued.

  She walked towards the convoy’s centre. One caravan was in the middle. Djurels didn’t have leaders, mayors, or governors. Status was determined by who had the most valuable item. This changed depending on the convoy, as worth was in the eye of the beholder. When that item was bartered, if the rest of the convoy — known as bojkoerri in Djurelian — deemed it less valuable than another’s most prized possession, they became the new leader.

  Trix garnered raised eyebrows and lazy smoke exhalations as she crossed the field. Djurels were not aggressive unless provoked. If you were stupid enough to antagonise one, you had to be quick. Djurels were demons in combat. They had guns, every race had guns, but they also had inbuilt, retractable claws. Fangs didn’t hurt either.

  Actually, they did. That was the whole point.

  There’s no such thing as an unarmed djurel, as the saying went.

  Trix approached the caravan’s entrance. Food was cooking inside. Smelled like roasting meat. Djurels were strict carnivores. Vegetables couldn’t sustain them. They offered too little sustenance.

  A djurel woman — djurelem — stepped out of the caravan. She stood in front of the doorway, regarding Trix with slit eyes. Her fur was jet-black. Beige spots accentuated her eyes. She wore a skirt split at both her thighs. That was all. Djurels had padded feet. They didn’t bother with footwear unless they were venturing into space. And they adapted easily in cold climates thanks to their fur.

  This djurelem’s fur grew longer in a ridge atop her head, like a Mohawk.

  ‘Koa setorri nahex kau traiis?’

  You come for the contract?

  ‘Aih,’ Trix said. Yes.

  ‘You speak our tongue.’

  ‘But a few words. I have a translator if you don’t speak Earthen.’

  The djurelem fell silent. Maybe she didn’t understand.

  ‘You are a machine from the gods. Your eyes tell me so.’

  Trix nodded.

  ‘Your name.’

  ‘Trix of Zilvia.’

  ‘J’vari Narem. You have come too late, white one. Another hunts the monster. Two days now, he went to the temple. Not since returned.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A sorcerer.’

  ‘Not a hunter?’

  ‘Your language may be foreign to me, but I know the difference.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘It does not matter. Death looks not for names. Only a pulse.’ J’vari put her palm over her heart. ‘Come.’ J’vari turned to enter her caravan. It was a sleek shape that tapered to a point. Like half a teardrop. Trix took one last look around the field. The djurels now paid her no attention. Their leader had welcomed the machina into her home. There was no cause for alarm.

  Their tranquillity didn’t just stem from nonchalance or general indifference. The djurels believed that they could kill the machina if she turned violent. There were two hundred of them in the convoy. More than enough.

  The caravan’s interior was cosy. Perfect for one person. A bed took up the room’s rear. It was nestled into the tear drop’s tip. There was a small driver’s cabin up front. A living area preceded it. J’vari went to an oven. Pulled out a leg of meat. There was no need for a knife. She shredded the soft flesh with her claws. It came off in strips, like thick spaghetti. J’vari put some in a bowl for herself. She also prepared a portion for Trix.

  ‘Sit, white one.’

  J’vari gestured to the low chairs left of the driver’s cabin, barely off the floor. Both were made from wood. Sturdy. Probably from the same trees Trix had walked through on her way to the convoy.

  Trix pulled her scarf down even though it wasn’t much warmer inside. J’vari probably thought it was balmy out. The djurelem handed Trix the bowl of shredded meat. The machina took it. J’vari ate with her hands. Trix retracted her gloves and did the same.

  ‘You know why Death takes the lives of the living?’ J’vari said.

  ‘I’m only here about the monster.’

  ‘And is Death not present in every beast? Hiding in the barrel of every gun? Perched on the tip of each blade? Death clings to all. You must understand.’

  The Valkyrie decided to humour J’vari. After all, she had invited a stranger — a machina, no less — into her home. Trix could make an effort to reciprocate J’vari’s hospitality.

  ‘Apologies.’

  ‘I have learned that humans too often, in seeking their destination, are blind to the path they tread.’

  ‘You’ve travelled?’

  ‘Aih, white one. Through the star ocean. Djiemlur is my home. Not even when I die will I see all there is to see on this planet, even when my feet do naught but wander. Better to see one place and know its beauty intimately than to know many as fleeting as the breeze.’

  Trix thought the djurelem was talking about more than travelling. J’vari spoke of love, too. Trix ate more meat. No chewing was necessary. It melted in her mouth. Warmed her core.

  ‘Why does Death take the living?’ Trix said, putting the conversation back on topic.

  ‘He likes the sound of our hearts. Each makes its own music, so Death takes them for himself.’

  ‘Why not take everyone’s hearts right away then?’

  ‘It takes time for the beat to become music worthy of Death. He waits until it is practiced. Until it’s dulcet. Life is the maestro, teaching, training. Death is patient. He never comes before a person is ready, whether they feel they are or not.’

  ‘So you believe each one of us has a time?’

  ‘No, white one. Not a time, but a purpose. That purpose may come sooner rather than later, for the future is not inked on paper nor etched in stone. It is changing all the time. Some events will happen, for they are meant to be. But the nature in which they occur is as ever changing as the weather. This is why we do not mourn death. There is no truer way to know a person has lived.’

  ‘And the sorcerer, the one who entered the temple, what was his purpose?’

  The djurelem smiled. A comms gauntlet was on her left forearm. An enamel cuff adorned her right. Fanciful earrings caught the light. ‘I expect he found out, in the end. We all do.’

  ‘Why tell me this?’

  J’vari Narem licked her bowl. Set it down. She patted her mouth with a napkin from the table. A bowl of white leaves was in the centre. She took some. Chewed.

  ‘You are Trix of Zilvia.’

  ‘I know. I told you.’

  ‘You are the machina Huntress, the Valkyrie. The stars know you, and so do we. But it was not your name that told me who you were.’

  Trix remained silent. Set her bowl down. A window behind J’vari showed the flaxen grass bending in the breeze. Snow blew over the golden field as if each flake were a fairy.

  ‘Your jakzia, you know this word?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is an old one, from the times when our caravans were pulled, not powered. It is a presence, an aura, yet more. Your jakzia i
s all you have done, and all you have yet to do. You darkle, white one.’

  Trix felt cold again. She had heard those words before. Long ago. Memories drowned her in ice water. The destruction of the machina academies, the massacre of Duskmere, Fenwick’s Curse, and other macabre events from her life crept into every shadow. Made each scar itch. Her sword felt heavy on her back. Weighed down by gore.

  ‘Tell me about this monster.’

  J’vari took the hint. She put another leaf into her mouth. Though she no longer discussed death, her words lingered in Trix’s mind. Sneered from the shadows.

  You darkle, white one.

  ‘From the contract, you should know that we are unaware of the monster’s form, for the only ones who have seen it are dead.’

  ‘Then why not move from this place?’

  ‘If we do not stop the monster, others who come this way may fall to it. Just because we do not mourn death does not mean we wish it upon others.’

  ‘Why not go after it yourself?’

  ‘Temples hold strange magic. Some of us may use it from time to time. Since the zireans voyaged among the stars, magic has spread. Even on your planet, Earth, there were those who kept it a secret for fear of exile, or worse.’

  ‘Are you a witch?’

  ‘No. We posted our contract so we did not have to fight. If none came in four moons, we would have dealt with it ourselves.’

  ‘What of the temple? What gods did it honour when it was used?’

  ‘Djurels bow to one god, Isaldaj, The God of Change, for change is all that is certain.’

  ‘And do djurels still believe in Isaldaj?’

  ‘Aih.’

  ‘Why would the temple be abandoned?’

  ‘The magic shifted as fertile lands became dearth. Those who spent their life in worship moved on, just as we do.’

  ‘Did Isaldaj ever demand any rituals. Sacrifice, perhaps?’

  ‘Those who worshipped with fervour claimed Isaldaj demanded a great many things. Always different. Always changing. I cannot say what took place in the temple. It is from the days of stone. They were the only settlements that were built. Places for weary bojkoerri to rest their bones and receive healing. Isaldaj is a kind god. In our faith, heathens are not punished, and believers receive no reward, for change comes to all. Belief changes nothing.’

  Trix’s brow furrowed. She’d gone three contracts without any mention of gods. The last one she encountered hadn’t been friendly.

  ‘This may just be bandits using the temple as a hideout.’

  ‘If that is the case, the sorcerer would have returned. His jakzia told me he was old. Older than even your deceptively youthful face, white one. Though I need no aura to see that. Your eyes speak the truth.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have returned if the bandits were many. Your people are skilled, especially in dark places where the light does not reach.’

  ‘Aih, white one. Will you take the contract?’

  ‘I will once you tell me my payment.’

  J’vari slipped a silver ring off her finger. It had a pearlescent blue tint. Ancient zirean script was etched into the side. Trix’s medallion vibrated against her battle-armour.

  ‘This ring is made from platinum, trimmed with mithril, and blessed by magic.’

  ‘What does the magic do?’

  ‘When you slay the monster, I will tell you.’ J’vari put the ring back on. ‘Will you take the contract?’

  Trix deliberated. It did not do to meddle with the gods. In her experience, even when they weren’t divine beings, they were the most powerful foes she’d ever faced. But the allure of a ring trimmed with mithril, well, that was worth the price of admission. Mithril would fetch a high price even if the magic turned out to be lack lustre.

  ‘We have a deal, J’vari.’

  ‘I promised the ring to the sorcerer, too. Should he return before you with proof of a slain beast, the ring shall be his.’

  ‘I understand. Where are the parents of the children who died?’

  ‘Speaking to them will garner you nothing, for they know as much as I about the temple.’ J’vari tapped her comms gauntlet. A hologram of two djurels’ — children did not have a different pronoun for sex — faces appeared. One was beige all over with white flecks along his jaw. The other’s fur was ginger with cream accents on his chest. Had they grown into men, they would’ve been known as djurelin.

  ‘What were their names?’

  ‘The dead have none, I have told you this already. But, if they are still alive, you may call the white flecked one Jazir, and the one of the flame fur Jhan.’

  ‘Thank you, J’vari.’

  ‘I will walk with you part of the way, white one. It would not do for you to lose your path before reaching the temple.’

  J’vari rose to her feet. Exited the caravan. Trix followed. Late afternoon sun was partially obscured by snow white clouds. Flaxen grass reflected the light, making the fields look like a lake of shifting gold.

  Djurels spoke in their native tongue to J’vari as she passed. J’vari waved and smiled like a queen. Trix spoke when they left the convoy’s shared ground.

  ‘What do you possess that makes you their leader?’

  ‘The ring.’

  ‘If you give it away, will you still lead?’

  ‘I expect not.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘To be a follower takes as much skill as being a leader.’

  J’vari outstretched her palms to the grass. She smiled as it stroked her fingers. ‘Those who desire power are not often versed in being either with any modicum of talent.’

  ‘Do you know of Aziasi Ra’ahra?’

  ‘She would seek to have our people join the Consortium. She wishes to be our leader when we have not asked for one, nor do we want one.’

  ‘She has followers, and money.’

  J’vari shrugged. The two women hugged the forest’s edge. The brook Trix crossed earlier wound its way onto the field’s eastern part. Land depressed there. Golden grass was littered with black stones. Moss flourished in the gully. Trees with pastel green leaves lined the brook as it widened to become a river. It would join the sea at some point.

  ‘Our culture has remained largely unchanged for thousands of years. Change will come. When it does, it will be swift. It will be drastic. And we must adapt to it.’

  ‘Aziasi is a slaver.’

  ‘I know this, white one. Show me someone who claims to have committed no wrongdoings, and I will show you a liar.’

  ‘There are those who can be pure.’

  ‘Benevolence, purity, hah. There is no surer way to live a boring life. Not all bad deeds have bad consequences.’ J’vari came to the brook. ‘Follow the water upstream till you reach the crooked tree. It bends to drink the water. From there, head east. The temple is built of grey-stone. Vines embrace the edges. Moss clings to the surface. Isaldaj djinka koa.’

  Change bless you.

  ‘Farewell, J’vari.’

  The djurelem nodded, then bowed. A djurelian bow was performed by bending the hips at a right angle, and arching the back upwards. Unlike most bows, eye contact was never broken. Trix was surprised to see that J’vari Narem bestowed another honour upon her. J’vari held her tail perpendicular to her body with her right hand. This was a sign of trust, for a djurel who lost their tail lost their balance.

  Trix watched as J’vari slinked back through the grass. Djurelem walked in ways that would’ve made even the most famous catwalk models jealous. Their grace was ingrained.

  The sun shone brighter as Trix entered the trees for a second time. She remembered the cold without conversation. Her scarf came up.

  And the Valkyrie followed the brook.

  3

  Snow looped through trees, crunched underfoot.

  Djiemlur’s bizarre palette made you feel like you were walking through a dream. One where nothing was as expected. This feeling immersed the machina, even when unease wormed its way into her mind.r />
  The crooked tree was as J’vari described. Its trunk curved halfway from the ground. Its top touched the water, staining its bark pink. Even the leaves swirled with rosy hues. Trix journeyed east. How the djurel boys had found the temple was beyond her. Unless they’d already known where it was. Its location couldn’t be stumbled upon. The convoy’s caravans were too large, and judging by their thrusters — or lack thereof — they couldn’t fly.

  ‘Any ideas yet?’ Sif said.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a fiend. They’re loud. Their roars carry on the wind, generally speaking, of course. I think it might be a wraith.’

  ‘They don’t exactly shriek at a low whisper either.’

  ‘But they’re quieter than fiends. They also leave few traces of their existence. Even young djurel boys would be able to smell fiend droppings or see their tracks. Their senses are keen’

  ‘And boys’ minds are foolish.’

  ‘All people are, yet of men, for whatever reason, it is expected.’

  ‘Operating under the assumption that it’s a wraith, what’s your plan?’

  ‘First I’ll need to see it. Wraiths take many forms. It could be one that appears during the day. Or only at night. It may be the manifestation of a disease or a scorned lover’s lingering soul.’

  ‘Then there’s just the small matter of not dying.’

  ‘Yes, there is that. They pass right through shields. Only magic and armour can block their attacks.’

  ‘You might have to craft a silver bomb.’

  Trix had a lot of weapons on her ship, though she rarely used any others besides her sword and pistol. She didn’t like carrying grenades. They made too much mess. Enemies always tended to have some anyway. And Trix was skilled at liberating people from their weapons.

  The Valkyrie also had crafting components in the form of metals — for repairing armour — blade oils, and bomb pieces. Bombs were only ever used on monsters. And even then, there was one bomb that trumped almost all others. One that released silver shrapnel upon detonation.

  Silver was long thought to be the bane of monsters, dating back to Earthen medieval times. Magic scholars discovered that this was correct. Not just folklore superstition. Silver possessed latent magical properties. Trix’s sword was lightly enchanted with silver dust. Gold too. Though wraiths would require a higher concentration.