Pants and a horse later, Twain rode out of the demon country’s palace. Overhead, dark clouds loomed. A fine mist filled the air for now, accumulating as dewdrops on his oiled coat. Twain held out his hand and watched the droplets stain his gray skin black. Blighted.
Black speckled the earth around him. The plants and trees twisted, splattered in black. Their branches became more spindly and strange where they were marked the darkest, leaves turning sharp, strange shapes forming out of their trunks. A passing cat turned and hissed, a second pair of eyes slitted like a snake’s staring wide at him beneath the cat’s. He frowned. Even the stray cats are turning into darkfoes. How can anyone see this as good?
I guess Lilith is crazy. He shook his head and drew his hood up, ducking against the misting blight.
Few others rode the day with him. A worn ox trundled along with a cart full of blight-stained vegetables, the driver dressed against blight, the same as Twain. A carriage in black, clattering away.
A brigade of soldiers, worn and injured, passed him by. Twain guided his horse off the road to let them pass. Demons one and all, they trooped by, exhausted, their heads bowed. “Where is the war?”
“Where isn’t it?” one of them snarked back. No one laughed.
“What do you mean?” Twain asked. He turned his horse and walked along with them.
The demon who’d replied, a woman with bright green skin, a broken horn, and a bandage around her forehead, squinted at him. “Which rock have you been living under? The one with the Barrier Alliance. Never mind the darkfoe army raging just outside the damn Barrier, waiting for gods-know-what signal to attack, let’s go fight the Alliance! Fuck knows why our king decided to proc a war with the Alliance while the darkfoe massed at the Barrier’s edge. Hell, why’d we join the Alliance in the first place if we were just going to start a war with them?”
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The demon beside her nudged her and pointed at Twain’s horse and fine attire. Twain twitched his oilskin shut, but too late.
She bowed low, sarcastically. “Ah, my apologies, Your Eminence. We fine soldiers return triumphant from the Great War, long live the king.”
I’m not going to get any more from them, am I. Twain nodded and turned his horse around, back toward the Barrier Alliance. He bit his lip. Guess my first problem is crossing the border, if the demons are at war with the rest of the Alliance.
A shadow shimmered in the corner of his vision. Twain turned, then flicked his eyes away. Don’t look.
“Hello, friend.”
Twain twisted his lips. “I’m not your friend.”
Xenozar laughed. He pushed his hair over his shoulders. It immediately fell right back into his face.
“You’re not real. Don’t talk to me,” Twain said.
“Won’t you let me out? I’ve been in the Barrier for so many years. Centuries. Waiting, while Mage-Emperor after Mage-Emperor replenished the damned Barrier instead of dying off and letting me conquer this place from the heart of it.”
“You can talk like an ordinary person?”
Xenozar shrugged. “When I want to.”
They walked along in silence. Twain kicked the horse faster, but Xenozar kept pace. Clicking his tongue in disappointment, Twain slowed down again.
“By your own judgement, I’m a figment of your imagination. No matter how fast you go, you can’t shake me.”
“Shut up.”
“Well… ‘figment of your imagination’ isn’t quite right. More accurately, I’m the blight inside you, which is a part of me, as all blight is.”
Twain looked over at him. “Is that why you want to blight everything?”
Xenozar smiled.
Twain rolled his eyes. Right, he’s gotta be mysterious.
Wait. I’m the one talking to someone who only exists in my head. Ignore him. Twain turned away.
“If you just listened, you could understand,” Xenozar said.
“You don’t exist. Shut up.”
Silence. He glanced to the side. A grayish meadow stretched to the horizon, full of dried, dying grasses, but no Xenozar.
Twain closed his eyes. He rubbed his face and sighed out. “How the hell did I end up here?”