Page 8 of Where Exorcists Cannot Lie

Even this early in the morning, the sunrays on this plain packed a punch. Squinting against them, I tried to make out the three men approaching me.

All were slight in build and stature, as was common for their people. Nonetheless, not many rushed to fuck with Dhottereans. Their mean skills in using bows and poisonous blowpipes discouraged such inclinations.

“I’m bound for the Noyau Sanctuarium, officers,” I responded. Since my telltale grey robes remained hidden under my travelling attire, I pointed to the silver brooch clasp holding the two front folds of my cloak together.

At the sight, the soldiers cupped their hands and bowed. “Fyoji,” they murmured, awarding me the honorific reserved for a shaman in their language.

I relaxed further. Depending on who manned the post, the outcome of the encounter could have proved precarious. Blasting Magic all over the place to save my skin would be my least preferred choice of action. My name already featured high on the Guild’s shit list. I didn’t need yet another incident to bump it to the top.

Thank the gods, the Dhottereans were reasonable and friendly people. And currently—in contrast to other inhabitants of the Barbarian Territory—on good terms with the Empire. But even still, you never knew in this region where geopolitics tended to shift with a gust of the wind. Every so often, new wars, chieftains and alliances sprang up like mushrooms after the rain, establishing a new order.

“Where are you travelling from?” one of the patrolmen asked, curiosity in his voice.

I didn’t blame the man for trying to strike up a conversation. My passage must have constituted a welcome interlude in the monotony of their shift. Who wouldn’t be bored out of their skulls stuck in this stark wasteland of tumbleweeds and bushes for days on end?

“Not far, just the cross-border area.” I waved my hand behind me—the direction of where the Ghadarra Province should be located, according to my subpar orienteering skills. Truth be told, if not for my magical abilities, I wouldn’t have any problem getting lost in large lavatories.

The oldest-looking soldier with sun-weathered skin grinned, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You speak our language well, fyoji.”

His companions murmured their assent.

The soldiers weren’t alone in wanting a chit-chat. A solitary four-day horse trek left my mouth in need of a stretch. Therefore, I acknowledged the compliment with a smile of my own.

“It aids the job. Speak the tongue of a demon, and you shall exorcise it.” I winked, quoting the motto of my profession, and watched the patrolmen’s eyes grow as large as cartwheels. “In fairness, after so many years of travelling up and down these parts, it would’ve been impossible not to pick up a few phrases here and there. No shortage of work for my kind around here.”

Suddenly turning sombre, the patrolmen nodded. “Ain’t that the truth. Rarely a moment of peace these days.”

For centuries, demonic activity had continued to be rampant within the borders of the Barbarian Territory. Spirits and demons loved stirring up trouble in the area, favouring it over the Empire and the Elven Country. Why wouldn’t they? In this immensity of wild land with fewer cities, less policing and general disorder, they had a riot. All that coupled with powerful, ancient sources of spiritual energy flowing around the place–what wasn’t to like? And the local tribes suffered the brunt of it, given the insufficient number of Mages and shamans qualified to deal with the problem.

“You might encounter some Ruyoshee people before you reach Noyau, fyoji. They’re stationed south from here.” The one who spoke sported desert-style headgear in vibrant crimson.

That came as more welcome news.

“Thank you, officer. As it happens, I’m familiar with the Ruyoshee tribe and their dialect.”

My mind wandered back to those few months I’d spent in Ruyoshee territory, teaching the chieftain’s daughter to control her speech spirit talent.

“Fyoji, how many languages do you speak?” the inquisitive soldier asked again.

“Fluently?” I ran a quick count in my head. “Twelve, including Imperial and Elven Sign Languages,” I said, then added for the sake of accuracy, “but I only write in six.” My face warmed as I disclosed my shortcomings.

Judging by the low whistle of appreciation, the patrolmen didn’t regard that as much of a flaw.

It always made me uncomfortable when people praised my linguistic abilities. My knack for languages was very much like the Magic I’d been blessed with. I deserved credit for neither—both were innate gifts the God of Chance had chosen to bestow upon me. Granted, one had to work damn hard at developing and maintaining those talents. Other than that, they were none of my doing.

Besides, I’d had an easy start. As a biracial toddler, I’d acquired Common Elven from my father and Imperial from my human mother before ditching the nappies, and with no effort involved. In my teenage years, I’d taught myself the Highlander dialect on account of an infatuation. Nothing had come out of my short-lived affair with an archer from Black Mountain—if not counting a broken heart and self-esteem issues. And damn if that didn’t set a trend for my future love life. My failed romance had sparked my interest in the language field, though.

During my magical training, I mastered the Old Language. That didn’t constitute a particular achievement, either. All Mages were obliged to learn it, given the ample number of scrolls on Magic and most incantations that were written in it. Long story short, at thirty-two and after having worked across the Barbarian Territory for over a decade, I’d achieved proficiency in six tribal dialects.

The owner of the crimson headdress cleared his throat. “Fyoji, could you bless us?” he asked, hesitation clear in his voice. “Sometimes it can get a touch…restless here at night.”

I did my best to hide the urge to squirm. Even after all that time, I felt like an imposter when people asked for my blessing. While I couldn’t deny that my job shared some characteristics with priestly duties, the sacramental aspect of it still made me a little uneasy. Then again, if my blessing could comfort and lessen someone’s fears—why not?

The trio bowed their heads and closed their eyes as I raised my hand. I channelled the Magic inside me and sent a wave of low-level spiritual energy towards the patrolmen. On an afterthought, I reached under my cloak and into my leather crossbody satchel. I fished out a small piece of red parchment bearing a few characters in the Old Language.

“Here, take this,” I said, bending forward in my saddle to hand the closer-standing man the protective talisman I’d designed of late. “It’s activated by flames. In case of danger, throw it into the fire and draw a circle around you. If you stay within, it’ll keep you safe.”

I waved my farewell in response to the soldiers’ expressions of gratitude and wishes for a good journey before cueing Koryn to resume his trot.

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