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  Demonsong

  A tale of the First Age

  by

  F. Paul Wilson

  Demonsong

  © 1979 by F. Paul Wilson

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First published in the DAW anthology HEROIC FANTASY, edited by Gerald Page, in 1979

  ebook edition published 2010

  CONTENTS

  “Demonsong”

  The Secret History of the World

  Bibliography

  DEMONSONG

  "Ho, outlander!" cried the burlier of the two men-at-arms stationed before the city's newsboard. His breath steamed in the chill post-dawn haze. "You look stout of arm, poor of cloak, and lame of brain – this notice from the prince should interest you!"

  "He'd have to be an outlander to be interested," his companion muttered through a gap-toothed leer. "No one from around here's going to take the prince up on it.”

  The first scowled. "The prince ought to go himself! Then maybe we'd get a real man on the throne. Musicians and pretty-boys!" He spat. 'The palace is no longer a fit place for a warrior. Wasn't like that like that during his father’s reign.”

  The other nodded and the pair walked off without a backward glance.

  The outlander hesitated, then approached the elaborately handwritten notice. He ran long fingers through his dusty red hair as he stared it. The language was fairly new to him and, although he spoke it passably, reading was a different matter. The gist of the notice was an offer of 10.000 gold grignas to the man who would undertake a certain mission for Prince lolon. Inquiries should be made at the palace.

  The outlander fingered his coin pouch; a few measly coppers rattled within. He didn't know the weight of a grigna, but if it was gold and there were 10,000 of them...money would not be a problem for quite some time. He shrugged and turned toward the palace.

  *

  The streets of Kashela, the commercial center of Prince Iolon's realm, were alive at first light. Not so the palace. It was well nigh midbefore Glaeken was allowed entrance. The huge antechamber was empty save for an elderly blue-robed official sitting behind a tiny desk, quill in hand, a scroll and inkwell before him.

  "State your business," he said in a bored tone, keeping his eyes on the parchment.

  "I've come to find out how to earn those 10,000 grignas the prince is offering.”

  The old man's head snapped up at Glaeken's unfamiliar accent. He: saw a tall, wiry, red-headed man – that hair alone instantly labeled him a foreigner – with high coloring and startlingly blue eyes. He wore leather breeches, a shirt of indeterminate color girded by a broad belt that held a dirk and longsword; he carried a dusty red cloak over his left shoulder.

  "Oh. A northerner, eh? Or is it a westerner?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "No...no, I suppose not. Name?"

  "Glaeken,"

  The quill dipped into the well, then scratched out strange black letters on the scroll. "Glaeken of what?"

  "How many Glaekens do you have in this city?"

  "None. It's not even in our tongue."

  "Then Glaeken alone will do."

  The air of finality to the statement caused the official to regard the outlander with more careful scrutiny. He saw a young man not yet out of his third decade who behaved with an assurance beyond his years.

  A youth with oiled locks and dressed in a clinging white robe entered the antechamber then. He gave Glaeken a frankly appraising stare as he sauntered past on his way to the inner chambers.

  "Captain of the palace guard, I presume," Glaeken said blandly after the epicene figure had passed from sight.

  "Your humor, outlander, could cost you your head should any of the guard hear such a remark."

  "What does the prince want done?" he said, ignoring the caveat.

  "He wants someone to journey into the eastern farmlands and kill a wizard."

  "He has an army, does he not?"

  The official suddenly became very interested in the scroll. "The captains have refused to send their men."

  Glaeken mulled this. He sensed an air of brooding discontent in palace, an undercurrent of frustration and hostility perilously close to the surface.

  "No one has tried to bring in this wizard then? Come, old man! The bounty surely didn't begin at 10,000 gold pieces."

  "A few squads were sent when the problem first became apparent, but they accomplished nothing."

  "Tell me where these men are quartered. I'd like to speak to them."

  "You can't." The official's eyes remained averted. "They never came back."

  Glaeken made no immediate reply. He fingered his coin pouch, then tapped the heel of his right hand against the butt of his longsword.

  Finally: "Get a map and show me where I can find this wizard."