Shadowland

Chapter 17: The Demon

Wilawen took one last look at the giant slug, bidding Valandil a final farewell before her ensorcelled feet carried her away from him, perhaps forever.

No, she thought. Do not think that! All you need do is survive. If you can survive, then, eventually, you will find your way back to him—or he will find his way to you.

She glanced at her new owner. I will survive.

I will do whatever it takes.

She worked her way through the jostling crowd—the drow following close behind—aware that her feet, no longer under her own control, seemed to know exactly where they were going, navigating her, with smooth efficiency, past stall after stall—past cages of dejected slaves, naked and shackled; past displays of embroidered silks, and dyed leathers, and fine, supple chainmail…

And at every step the city’s strange inhabitants loomed out of the darkness—drow females, taller and stronger than the males, striding confidently through the milling shoppers; fish-men with strange goggle-eyes, who stared at her and sniffed disdainfully; smartly dressed orcs in elaborate livery, who hurried past on their owners’ business; tiny reptile-men, scurrying to and fro, gathering up the rubbish…

And hundreds of male drow.

The males, Wilawen noticed, were generally subservient to the females—even the courtier stepped aside and bowed (almost respectfully) when a female drow passed by. But she—being, she supposed, like and yet not like their own women—drew insolent stares from every male who passed—some going so far as to reach out and grope at her until her owner dismissed them with a flick of his elegant hand.

“You are,” he murmured in Westron, “the stuff their dreams are made of…”

They turned a corner, and Wilawen’s feet came to a sudden and disturbing stop. To her right, a double-fronted stall, built of stone and thick fungus planks, caught her attention. She peered into its dimly lit interior.

“Daelein Shimmerdark’s Decanter,” said the courtier, “with its astonishing collection of wines and spirits and—if you know how to ask for them—potions and poisons from all over the worlds, below and above.”

“Why have you brought me here?” asked Wilawen—her mouth suddenly dry and her voice thick with fear.

“Brought you here?” The courtier frowned; then his handsome face suddenly shone with amusement. “Oh no, you misunderstand, My Surface Lady. I just have a fancy for some wine…”

…

The courtier handed the bottle to Wilawen and, immediately, her feet started moving again. Hugging the wine to her chest, she left the Bazaar, walking swiftly.

The wine seller had wanted to buy her, but the courtier had refused to sell.

Nothing in Wilawen’s previous experience—not the thirty-seven years she had spent as an invisible woman (the sort that men ignore), not even the time that she had been with Valandil—had prepared her for the attention she was receiving from the drow males.

Only the courtier seemed indifferent.

At first that had been a relief.

But now…

If he does not want to bed me, what does he want? she wondered. Obviously something worse—but what could be worse than that? “Why did you buy me?” she asked softly. “What do you want of me?”

The drow smiled. “You are bait,” he answered, without hesitation. “A tasty little morsel to catch a very big fish.”

…

The street of town houses ended in an open plaza.

Directly ahead, Wilawen could make out the solid black mass of a high stone wall, with crenellated battlements patrolled by drow soldiers, and, beyond that, the turrets of a faery castle, glimmering with blue and mauve tracery.

But her feet turned right and she marched past, crossing the square diagonally to avoid the deep, jagged rift that cut into its rightmost edge.

Then she turned left.

And gasped.

And her feet stopped walking.

Sweeping up before her, wider and more imposing than the Great Gates of Minas Tirith, was a staircase—though ‘stair’ did not seem grand enough a word for the great stone steps that curved upwards, with a perfect balance of dignity and grace, from the cave she was now standing in to the cavern beyond.

And in that cavern—blazing, it seemed, with lights of every colour—stood three massive buildings: to the right, a solid, windowless pyramid; to the left, an elegant, many-spired tower; and in between—dwarfing them both—a strange stone spider, its splayed legs buttressing, in its abdomen, a single edifice bigger than The Citadel itself!

“Interesting,” said the courtier. “It seems that I can control your will, but not your curiosity. When we reach my chambers I shall consult my grimoires… There may be some subtle variation of the spell to compensate for the vagaries of the human mind. Can you walk away from me?”

Wilawen tried—hard—but failed.

“There are limits, then, to your independence. Good.” He seemed to make a mental note; then—“Come,”—he took her by the arm and drew her, not up the stairs but to right, where, within the shadows cast by the sweeping stonework, another drow was waiting.

The two males greeted each other with a familiar hand-clasp, though it seemed to Wilawen that the second drow—a tall, burly creature clad in plate armour and carrying a broadsword—was annoyed. But the courtier held up a hand and spoke soothingly, and all was suddenly calm—and Wilawen wondered if her owner had cast another spell. “This,” he said, affably, “is Master Argith and, in a moment, he is going to carry you up the stairs.”

He reached inside his cloak and drew out a small object.

“Why?” asked Wilawen.

“So that we can pass the sentries.” He raised the object—a tiny glass lens—to his eye and sighted her through it. “I can make you invisible but not without lifting the spell that forces you to walk, which means you must be physically coerced. And I was not fashioned to carry heavy burdens.”

He signalled to his friend and the big drow scooped her up in his arms and held her fast.

Then the courtier—No, thought Wilawen, he is a Mage—cast his spells, and the two drow ascended the staircase and, nodding to the guards, passed unhindered through the gates, crossed the cavern, and carried Wilawen into the smallest of the three buildings, the slender tower of Sorcere.

Survive, thought Wilawen. I must survive.

…

Cyllien ran a hand through her tangled hair.

She had been lying in bed—the bed she shared with Haldir and, sometimes, with others—since she had forced the carpenter, Heral, to leave at knife point the day before.

Lying in bed, hoping that she might die.

But morning had broken and she was still alive.

And now she needed some pipeweed.

Sighing, she pushed back the coverlet, swung her feet to the floor, and sat up. A wave of nausea—an unfamiliar sensation—made her head swim. She swallowed hard and, ignoring the cold sweat breaking out on her forehead, and the sharp saliva filling her mouth, stood up. It will be alright, she thought, when I have had a smoke.

She picked up Haldir’s hunting knife and, fumbling with the buckle, strapped it to her thigh.

Her pipe was hidden in the sitting room—for Haldir, though he said nothing, did not like her smoking, and Cyllien, though she took a childish pleasure in crossing him, was, for some reason, sensitive to his disapproval of that vice.

She opened the bedchamber door—

And, retching, clamped her hand over her mouth.

Lying in the middle of the sitting room floor, its head almost sliced from its body, was a dead cat.

…

“Dínendal?”

“Yes.” The healer squeezed Valandil's hand.

“Where are we?”

In the inky darkness of the holding cell at the rear of the slave dealer's stall, Dínendal sought out Rumil and Orophin, and beckoned them closer. “We are prisoners,” he said, softly, “we—”

“Wilawen!” Valandil sat bolt upright.

Rumil and Orophin caught his arms.

“Shhhh,” whispered Orophin. “She is still alive, mellon nín. And where there is life, there is hope.” He laid a brotherly arm across Valandil's shoulders. “There is still hope.”

“They captured us…” said Valandil.

“Yes. And brought us to their city.”

“To be sacrificed.”

“No.” Orophin gave Valandil a reassuring embrace. “We are not going to be sacrificed. We are going to escape, and find Wilawen, and take her home—sooner or later someone is going to open that door and, when they do, we will be ready. They will be armed, but they will not be expecting any resistance.”

“What makes you think that?” whispered Rumil.

“They have not restrained us,” replied Orophin. “They have underestimated us.”

“They just know that we have nowhere to go,” said Rumil.

“So—what?—should we give up?” asked his brother, sharply. “Should we cower in our cage or should we fight?”

“Orophin is right,” said Valandil, quietly. “We must try to escape.”

“Together,” said Dínendal. “Our only chance is to stay to—”

“Shhhh,” said Rumil, suddenly. “Someone is coming.”

…

Swathed in a dark mantle—and keeping to the shadows as she passed the Palace building works—Cyllien descended to the main walkway and followed it westwards to the quiet neighbourhood where Arinna shared a house with the two Mirkwood elves.

She tapped on the door.

Camthalion was surprised to see her, but politely invited her inside.

Arinna, sitting by the fireplace, gestured towards a chair. “You look as though you had seen a ghost,” she said.

Cyllien sat down heavily and—suddenly feeling safe enough to let her control slip—buried her face in her hands.

“Cami,” said Arinna, “some apple brandy, please.” She scrutinised the top of the elleth’s head. “He has threatened you. I am sorry. I should have known—ah—thank you, Cami.”

Sensing that the elf was standing beside her, Cyllien raised her head, took the glass, drained it, and handed it back. Camthalion glanced at Arinna. The woman nodded. He went to fetch a refill.

“Tell us what happened,” said Arinna.

Cyllien frowned at Camthalion's back.

“You may speak in front of Cami,” said Arinna. “He already knows. And he is very discreet.”

Cyllien sighed. “When he came, yesterday, I told him I wanted to end it. But he would not listen—he frightened me. I—I threatened him with a knife and made him leave.”

Camthalion handed her another apple brandy. Cyllien took a large mouthful, then cradled the glass against her chest.

The elf waited.

Cyllien looked up at him, questioningly. Then, flushing, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He went to stand behind Arinna's chair.

“Go on,” said the woman.

“This morning,” said Cyllien, “I found a dead cat in the sitting room. He must have come in whilst I was in bed and put it there. I had barred the door with a chair—I do not know how he got inside…”

“You are sure that the cat,” said Arinna, “could not have crawled in by itself—been injured somewhere else, perhaps, and—”

“No.” Cyllien shook her head. “Its throat had been cut with knife.”

Arinna leaned back in her chair. “How much cleaner it all is,” she said, softly, “when it is done properly. If I were running a house… Still, you have made your decision and we must persuade him to accept it.”

“Accept it! He will never accept it!” cried Cyllien. “He left a dead cat in my house! In Haldir's house.”

“Shall I fetch Captain Golradir?” asked Camthalion.

“No…” said Arinna. “Not yet. The Captain would be honour-bound to tell the March Warden—and we must avoid that, if we can.”

“I will see to the cat, then,” said the elf. He gave Arinna's shoulder a brief squeeze; then, placing his hand on his heart, bowed his head to Cyllien, and left.

“He is the best sort,” said Arinna, watching the door close behind him. “Completely trustworthy. They both are. Like your March Warden.”

“Thank you,” said Cyllien, bitterly.

…

The door opened.

Rumil and Orophin, crouching either side, sprang at the slave dealer, grabbing him by the arms and throwing him to the floor. Rumil pinned him down—

Crack!

A second drow appeared in the doorway, wielding a whip—Crack!—and Rumil cried out as the lash bit into his back. His body convulsed violently.

“Rumil?” Orophin dropped to his knees beside his brother.

“Back!” The second drow—a magnificent female—stepped into the cell, one hand on her hip, the other holding the whip—which she trailed suggestively down Orophin's cheek, letting its six heads lightly brush his skin.

Then she drew it away, and the heads hissed—

“Snakes!” cried Dínendal. “The whip is made of snakes!” He crawled forward. “Rumil has been bitten!”

“Back!” The drow raised her arm.

“I am a healer!” said Dínendal, holding up a hand in submission. “Please! Let me help my friend!”

“He does not need help,” replied the drow, in heavily-accented Westron. “That was no more than a warning. But,”—she cracked the whip again, letting the snake heads pass within a whisker of Rumil’s back—“a second lash will kill him. Release the male.”

Gently, Orophin and Dínendal lifted Rumil, and laid him, face down, on the cell floor.

The male drow scrambled to his feet and stood before the female awaiting his punishment.

“You told me they were docile,” said the female, still speaking in Westron.

“Mercy, mistress,” the male mumbled, head bowed so low that his chin was resting upon his chest.

The female, however, was fondling her snakes, thoughtfully. “You have done well,” she said. “My clients will pay extra for males with spirit.”

…


“How will I know when to step in?” asked Camthalion.

“You will see me pinned to a beam.”

“Arinna…!”

The woman smiled. “Use your judgement. But leave it as long as you can.”

The elf was obviously unhappy with that arrangement; but Arinna reached up and stroked his face. Then she slipped out from behind the carantaur trunk, walked gracefully across the walkway, and entered the building works.

The craftsmen-builders worked in four gangs. The carpenters built the framework, sawing and shaping the massive beams, cutting the mortices and the tenons, hauling the timbers into place with ropes and pulleys, and climbing—with death-defying confidence—over the wooden skeleton to hammer home the joists. Next came the plankers, cladding the roofs, the floors, and the walls, and planing them smooth, ready for the carvers, who followed close behind, adding the decorative elements—the swirling window frames and the fretted canopies. Last of all came the decorators, who filled the windows with coloured glass, painted the woodwork, and built the canvas sun-shades.

Cyllien’s man belonged to the first gang, the carpenters—the real men.

Ignoring the stares and snide remarks, Arinna picked her way, through the organised chaos, to where the planking came to an abrupt end, then walked out onto one of the bare beams.

“Hey, lady…!” cried one of the men.

“I shall not be long,” she replied.

Her quarry was crouching, back turned towards her, carefully trimming out a mortice with his hammer and chisel. “I think this,” said Arinna, holding out a large carpet bag, “is yours.”

The man swung round, his expression turning from surprise to derision as he eyed the flowered holdall. “What?”

“The thing inside this bag,” said Arinna, quietly, “is, I believe, yours.” She placed the holdall on the beam between them. “When you left this, the situation turned from a foolish mistake to something altogether different—something quite nasty. I have not taken the matter any further as yet. But I shall, if you do it again. You have been warned.” She turned to leave.

“What are you going on about you old bat?”

“I have said my piece,” said Arinna over her shoulder. “If you know what is good for you, you will dispose of what is in the bag and that will be the end of it.” And, raising her hands for balance, she walked back to the safety of the solid floor.

The carpenter flew after her.

“If you think you can come here, in front of all my mates…”

He grabbed her by the shoulder and jerked her round, and—as she turned—Arinna saw Camthalion emerge from behind the tree and come running across the walkway—but the carpenter had already raised his fist, and contempt made her reckless. “You can hit me all you like, you bully—I have ripped off bigger balls than yours and when I have them I will give them to her on a plate—”

“That's enough, Heral!” One of the other workmen caught the carpenter by the shoulders and pulled him back. “I have warned you before about threatening women. You had better go, lady.”

Arinna stepped back and, with Camthalion standing guard behind her, looked the carpenter in the eye. “Remember what I said,” she insisted. “It need go no further if it stops now.”

As she let the elf lead her away, she saw the man angrily shrug off his colleague's restraining hands.

…

Orophin paced back and forth across the tiny, dark room, cursing under his breath.

After allowing the female drow to cow him with her demonic whip, he had let the bitch force him to lift his unconscious brother onto his back and, with Dínendal and Valandil in tow—and escorted by a troop of heavily armed drow males—he had followed her across the city like a gelded hound.

Manwë's balls! Orophin drove his fist into the wall. The pain was sickening but, at the same time, calming.

Dínendal was right, he reminded himself. Our only chance is to stay together. Once Rumil had been bitten, we had no choice but to bide our time…

So why was he feeling like a pile of Orc shit?

The drow had led them to an elegant tavern on the edge of the bazaar, set, like a castle, in its own moated grounds. She had brought them in through the rear entrance, had them looked over by another female, and locked them up in separate rooms.

Orophin had no illusions about what the place was. He had visited human brothels himself—and had heard that there were some where males would lie with other males.

He punched the wall again. That will not happen to me! I will die first, he swore. I will—

The key turned in the lock.

Orophin clenched his fists, and prepared to fight.

The door swung open and a drow entered, carrying a dark lantern.

Orophin charged.

The drow stepped aside.

And someone outside slammed the door shut.

Orophin hit the slab of fungus with a sickening thud. And, as he leaned against the planks, momentarily winded, he felt a hand slide down his back, and over his buttocks, and reach up between his legs.

“No!” He whirled around, lashing out with his fists, knocking the filthy animal to the floor.

The drow's dark lantern fell open, and a soft light filled the room.

Orophin gasped.

His molester was the drow bitch—no longer wearing her boiled leather armour or carrying her fiendish whip, but dressed in a translucent gown that scarcely contained her voluptuous curves—and she was looking up at him with such mixture of sham contrition and genuine lust…

“I have been a very naughty girl, Master Elf,” she purred, in Westron, her exotic accent lending her words an extra frisson, “and I have come here to be punished.”

…

Wilawen stood beside the carved marble bath, staring at the warm, flower-scented water. It had been so long since she had felt clean. But…

“Undress and bathe,” said the Mage

“Why?” she asked, sharply.

“You smell. You must be cleansed.”

“Why?”

The drow sighed. “Here am I, about to involve you in one of the most arcane, most abstruse, most audacious rites a Master of Sorcere has ever attempted, and all you can do is quibble about bathing—have you no sense of the honour I am conferring on you? Have you no sense of gratitude?”

“Not when this ‘honour’ is likely to kill me,” said Wilawen.

“Look,” said the Mage, “undress and bathe by yourself or I will send for Master Argith and he will do it for you.”

“He would not,” said Wilawen. “He is your friend, not your servant, and he could never be persuaded to do anything so dishonourable in the name of friendship.”

The drow looked at her curiously. “And you know that, how?”

“By observation,” said Wilawen, “of him and of you. And because of the way he held me when he carried me.”

“Impressive insight. But not, at this moment, of the slightest use to either of us. Very well, I shall undress you myself.” He raised an elegant hand. “With a single word.”

“If you could really do that,” said Wilawen, “you would already have done so—OH!”

The Mage had uttered his word.

Wilawen covered herself with her hands.

“I was refraining out of respect,” said the drow. “And because watching a woman undress herself is always pleasurable. Now bathe!” He turned to leave.

Wilawen glowered at his back.

“Two words and your face will stick like that,” he said.

…

A young drow—clearly a recent graduate of the Academy—climbed the steps of Sorcere, gave his excuse to the gatekeepers, and walked into the School of Wizardry, seeking the chambers of a certain Mage.

…

The courtier returned carrying a gown of soft, black suede—its bodice spangled with blood-red gems—and laid it carefully on his bed. “Are you considered a beauty amongst humans?”

“No.”

“And are you—intact?”

Wilawen stared up at him.

“I can look…”

“No.”

“Pity… Still, it is the thought that counts—and you do have all the working parts—here.” He picked up a towel and held it ready for her. But Wilawen, suddenly exhausted by their cat-and-mouse game, seized it from him and dried herself, anointing her body—at his insistence—with a cloying perfume.

Then she allowed him to lace her into the jewelled gown.

“Just one thing,” said the Mage, as he led her into his study. “If he should ask, you are a virgin.”

…

Orophin lay upon his bed, staring into the darkness.

The drow had not forced him. What he had done he had done of his own free will.

…

Survive.

“What is your name?” asked Wilawen. She watched the Mage take a long, slender rod from a padded box and approach a geometric figure inlaid in the marble floor.

“What is yours?”

“I asked first.”

“Yes.” He turned, abruptly, his handsome face lit by something approaching a grin. “But I have more to lose.” He went back to his work, slowly drawing the rod down the sides of the figure—a five-pointed star—reciting a short phrase at the end of each stroke.

“Eowyn,” said Wilawen, as he moved to a second figure—a simple circle. “My name is Eowyn.”

“Pharaun,” said the Mage, absently, sweeping the rod around the curve. Then, “Oh Lloth! I am an addle-headed fool!” He sighed. “Do you know anything of arcane magic?”

Wilawen shook her head. “No.”

“Good.”

He outlined a third figure—another star—that enclosed the others, then he took Wilawen by the hand and drew her into the circle, reciting more words. “Can you step outside?” he asked.

Wilawen tried, but it was as though she were confined by an invisible wall—she placed her hands upon its inner surface, and pushed, to no avail.

“Perfect,” said Pharaun, gesturing for her to stop. “We are ready, then.” He backed away. “Now this may take some time…”

He had collected several items and arranged them on a table, and now he stood behind them, lighting an incense burner and using his hands to waft the fragrant smoke into the prepared space, whilst he chanted a monotonous refrain—quietly at first, then louder, and louder, slowly building more and more momentum, until, at last, his summons reached its climax, and a massive, man-like creature shot up through the floor, and stood beside Wilawen.

…

The young drow paused, and glanced back.

There was no one following him.

He drew a small onyx figurine from a pouch at his waist, set it down on the floor, and whispered a single word.

“Guenhwyvar.”

…

The demon clenched its fists and roared.

Wilawen stared in horror at its naked body—slimy mottled skin stretched over broad shoulders, heavily muscled chest, powerful thighs, and big, erect penis.

Oh gods…

Survive.

How?

“WHO HAS BROUGHT ME HERE?”

“I have,” said Pharaun, calmly.

“I WILL KILL YOU!”

“Do not be foolish,” said the Mage. “For one thing, you are imprisoned by my pentacle—”

The demon lashed out, smashing both fists into the walls of its invisible cell.

“Well, I suppose there is no harm in your trying,” said Pharaun. “Unless, that is, I take steps to dissuade you.” He skimmed his fingers over the objects on the table and, dipping them into a small bowl, took a pinch of dust, and threw it at the demon.

The substance fell in a silver shower, cascading down the invisible dome like diamond dust on glass.

The creature fell silent, watching, as if mesmerised. Then it reached out, and stroked the glittering surface—

The dust motes exploded under its fingertips, shooting into its hand like a thousand tiny needles. The demon drew back, crying out in pain.

“Now,” said Pharaun, “if you will just calm down, and turn to your right, you will see that I have a gift for you.”

The demon scowled, looking Wilawen up and down.

“Is that not worth having?” asked Pharaun.

“Depends. What do you want in return?”

“We can discuss that later. Just give me your word that you will grant me one wish, and I will dispel the walls, and leave the pair of you to get acquainted.”

“No,” cried Wilawen. “No! Please—sir—I will do anything else you ask. Please!”

“It is a tempting offer,” said Pharaun. “But no.” He turned to the demon. “Well? What do you say?”

The creature leaned as close to Wilawen as the Mage’s spells would permit, and snuffed at her skirts. “Is she a virgin?”

“Would I give you anything less?”

“No!” cried Wilawen. “No, I am not! He is trying to trick you! His one wish is to enslave you!”

“Do not do anything foolish—” muttered the drow.

“But I know his name! He is called Pharaun!”

“—like that.”

“PHARAUN!” bellowed the demon, pounding on the magical wall—oblivious, now, to the volatile dust that exploded with every blow—“I command you to release me, PHARAUN!”

…

Pharaun clasped his hands (as though around the creature’s massive neck), hastily reciting the words that would shrink the restraining spell and imprison the demon in an invisible vise…

He completed them just as the creature broke free, disappearing through the floor and back to the astral plane from which it had been summoned.

The spell closed on empty space, met itself in the middle, and rebounded, ripping away the woman's invisible cell, lifting her bodily, and depositing her—almost neatly—in Pharaun’s outstretched arms.

…

Next episode: Minas Tirith