Demon of the Black Gate

Sinjin woke two days after Cerra left the Cherro’s horse camp. He remembered little. He tried to recount the fevered dreams, much of it lost to oblivion. But there was one that burned in his memory, the vision of the woman, the witch, who had gazed down at him. She was in his dreams; her face was a recurrent suggestion that would not desert his mind with the rest of the hallucinations that took him on a journey beyond the veil of the world. The tearing, screaming pain ravaged him from another dimension, his legs torn from his body. Pain.

He gathered himself weakly to his elbows and nearly fell back, so relieved was he to see both legs still there. What had happened? Sinjin found the strength to lift back the coverings and saw fresh bandages. He could tell by the flesh beyond the edges that it was no longer breeding infectious humours into his bloodstream. It no longer burned.

He fell back, part in relief and part in exhaustion. The woman. Had she been there? Or was she just a part of his fever? He saw her face clearly, the peach skin, even the light freckled nose. The curling red hair. He heard her voice. It was soft and low. “You’re going to remember this.” echoed in his consciousness.

She had been there. As the fog of his long unconsciousness drifted clear he became more sure of it. He lifted himself again to his elbows. He had to move. He had to urinate.

He willed himself to a sitting position and sat while the dizziness passed. There was a small cup of hammered tin next to pitcher of water, and he weakly poured some, spilling a lot. He managed to get the cup of water to his mouth and drink it down. He let it drop when he tried to set it back, a light clatter as it struck the table edge and ground. He groaned. He wasn’t sure he could retrieve it without passing out. But the small disturbance brought a woman into the tent.

“You are awake.”

Sinjin had many answers to that, none of which would befit the hospitality he had been shown.

“How long have I been out?” His words weaved with his head.

“Before or after your leg was treated.?” replied the young girl as she helped him lay back down. She picked up the cup from the ground and poured more water into it.

“After.” he said more sharply than he meant to.

“Two days.”

“Where is she?” was all he could manage. Two days. It was a span of nothing in his mind. Two days spent in a cloud.

“Who? Oh, the one who treated your wound. That one? She has left.”

“When?” he croaked.

“Oh. Two days ago. Soon after she took care of you.”

He exhaled deeply. Two days. He would have to press to catch up if he traveled fast.

“A witch. I have to … “ he stopped himself. The thick obscurity of his thoughts was dissolving.

“I must go.”

“I’ll get the horse chiefs.” she said.

He willed the dizziness in his mind to cease the spin that tried to force him back prone, back to sleep. He had a bare chance to look around the room, focusing, before the woman returned with four men, wearing the braided headgear of their tribes. Their bronzed coloring was much like his own. The paint of their faces made them strange.

“You are awake. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Where is she? Why did you let her go?” Sinjin replied, with no intention of answering any.

“Let’s say that no one here desired to stop her. What is she to you?” Jadan approached him, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Besides the fact that you owe her your life. Personally, I thought you were beyond hope. Again, what is she to you?”

“It is none of your concern.” Sinjin replied flatly.

“I’m sure. Even less now as she has gone.” said the chief. He went to a stand where Sinjin’s belongings had been gathered. He picked up a throwing knifes, and the pack of darts. “I don’t think you mean her well.”

“Where? Where did she go? South.”

“She didn’t say, actually. But yes, south. From here, where else is a nachar to go.” replied Jadan, using the idiom for a non-Charros. “She cured the affliction in your leg. She ate with our women, and then made a grand exit. If any sought to stop her, they were quickly dissuaded. What make you of her most remarkable quality?”

Sinjin eyed the chief. What game was this?

“The witch? That alone should be enough. Her hair, what else?” he said with more petulance than he intended. He wanted to quit himself of the tent and these plains dwellers and he had a great deal of ground to cover.

“Ah yes … her hair. Any woman’s pride. If she had the vision to care for it properly.” said the chief with a tone of irony that Sinjin missed. “One of my wives spent nearly an hour on it before her breakfast. But do you call her witch because of it? You can remain here until you are fit to travel.”

“I’m fit enough now. I need a horse.”

“I see.” said the chief. “We can discuss that later.”

Sinjin felt the overpowering urge to kill the occupants in the room and take what he needed.

“Let’s discuss it now.”

He eased himself from the pallet and lurched over to his belongings. What few knives he still had were there, as were his darts and sword. The money pouch felt weighted as it should, and he rattled out a few silvers into his hand.

“A horse. And I’ll be on my way.”

“We have none to spare at the moment.” replied the horse chief. “However, if you wish to be on your way, none shall stop you.”

Again Sinjin thought of his sword. He could easily dispatch all of them had he been entirely himself.

Rovinkar had left him a tidy sum for his mission, though the jewels in his purse would make the coin a paltry cousin. He threw the entire coin purse at Jadan. “There is more there than ten horses are worth. Are you going to be known as the worst horse trader on the steppes? Make up your mind, now. I haven’t got all day.”

Jadan weighted the purse, and fingered open the draw to look inside.

“Done.” He turned to one of his lieutenants. “Take a mare from Foldan’s line. He has plenty and he owes me. Pick a strong horse. I’d not have an animal die …” He turned his attention back to Sinjin. “ … and I think this one will be ridden hard.”

The woman had been dangerous, very dangerous. But he did not feel the menace that he felt from this one. The sooner he was quit the camp, the better.

Sinjin was saddled and riding from the camp within the hour. His leg still felt leaden with a dull, deep ache that kept him from walking freely, and he wasn’t sure how long he could ride, but he had little time and once again she had a healthy lead on him. He had a good idea of her pace, which had been slow and steady. Though now, on the plains, he could not be sure. He was praying for that lack of urgency from her now. He wanted to catch her before she reached Ishkara.

Rovinkar was nearly ready. He had no choice but to expose himself to the void in order to trap the demon. It was meeting the demon on his level. The danger was being lost in the spell. He would be the weaker entity, and ultimately, the void would draw in the stronger force: the demon. First he had to have the demon close at hand before he risked such a spell. He had not sensed the presence of the demon since the last debacle at the Gates, but he was sure that the demon was waiting for his own opportunity. He would have to strike first.

He began etching in the first of the signs to the stones he had caused workmen to lay on the floor of his observatory which circled the walls under the domed roof of glass and tile. The stones were cut from the basalt mines of Forgia, fire-hardened rock from the earth where the demon had its roots in the Jimals.

The spell that he began to weave would not draw the demon into the void. That had not worked. This was more basic. A vibration carved from the matters of space, a cage to snare and hold the demon close while he worked the next and final spell.

Rovinkar chiseled the runes carefully into the virgin polished stone. He had colored sand, sifted from the jungle rivers of Fhajad, and he filled the incisions with the gemlike grit. It would take the best part of the day, and perhaps the next to finish the work, and he dare not make a mistake. A flaw in the cage would be his mortal undoing. His own shield would not be enough in the face of this elemental, and he would have little time to cast anything stronger.

He carefully chiselled in the signs for the eastern quadrant, letting his power slip into each tracing as he made it, and mumbling a mantra of power. He soon lost track of time.