Such was the power of the Song of Waning. Rojer had sensed it the first time his wives had sung it for him, a power akin to his, but … faded. Lost in the thousands of years since it was last needed.
But now Rojer brought that power back to life. Under his direction, the song’s insistent call kept the demons’ attention on something they could never find, to the ignorance of all else. If they had wanted, Gared or the Sharum could have walked right up and struck at them. A blow would break the spell and give the demons an immediate threat to respond to, but from a Sharum spear or Gared’s axe, a single blow could easily cripple or kill.
But Rojer had spoken true when he told them weapons were not needed this night.
He began the first verse of the song, Amanvah and Sikvah singing of the glory of Everam, and threaded in his first spell, one he and his wives had practised many times in their carriage. By the time the refrain came, the women wordlessly calling to the Creator, the demons had forgotten their hunt, dancing to his tune like villagers spinning a reel at solstice.
They carried that on into the next verse, when Rojer changed his tune to another practised melody. He began to stroll casually about the square, his wives following him. The demons trailed them like ducklings following their mother to water.
He let this go on through the refrain and the verse that followed, but added a note to signal his wives to the abrupt change about to come. As the verse ended, the demons were in the position he wished, and the three of them spun, hitting the demons with a series of piercing shrieks that had them howling and running from the square like whipped dogs.
They were almost out of range when he began the next verse. The corelings stopped short and froze in place like hunters trying not to be seen, lest they frighten off their prey. With contemptuous ease, he raised their tension until they could not bear it any longer, running about the square slashing and snarling, desperate to find the source of the music and put an end to it.
Rojer continued to lead them, offering false hints of where their quarry lay. There was an old hitching post outside the wardnet. He draped music over it.
There I am! Attack now!
Immediately, the demons shrieked and charged. The field demons leapt first, claws digging great furrows in the wood. A wind demon swooped out of the sky to strike the post, knocking one of the field demons free. The two corelings hit the cobbles in a tumble, biting and clawing. Black ichor splattered the square, and the wind demon barely escaped alive, taking to the air again with multiple tears in its leathern wings. The flame demons spat fire on the hitching post, and in moments it was ablaze.
Next Rojer laid the music over the stone demon. The field demons leapt at it as well, but the stone demon caught one by the head in its talons and crushed its skull against the cobbles. It took the other by the tail, swinging it like a man might swing a cat. Another wind demon swooped in, but veered off as the stone swung the field demon at it, then threw the field demon so hard it smashed against one of the porch wardnets in a lightning flare and fell to the ground, smoking and still. A flamer spat on the stone demon’s feet, setting them ablaze, but that did not save it from being kicked clear across the square to strike the wardnet with a flash of magic. When the flame died, the stone demon’s feet were unharmed.
Rojer allowed himself a smile. It was all teachable. All these refrains, these ‘spells’ he had cast on the demons, were melodies they had practised and written down. Other players might not be able to bring the power and harmony of their trio to bear, but they could learn by rote how to call demons or repel them, how to hide from them or send them into a frenzy.
But that was only the barest surface of the power Rojer felt with the women at his side. The truly subtle work he could never hope to write down. It had to be lived and felt in the moment, dependent not only on the demon breeds, but local variables as well, building on the very atmosphere.
This was what he had never been able to teach. He looked back at his jiwah, seeing awe in their wide eyes, and a little fear. Even Amanvah had lost her mask, her dama’ting serenity overwhelmed. They could imitate him, but not innovate.
There’s more, my loves, Rojer thought, turning back to regard the demons again. He took on a predatory demeanour, stalking the corelings as he and his wives herded them, separating them by breed. The song was done now, but Rojer kept on playing, building the final refrain louder and stronger, adding shifts and changes as quickly as Amanvah and Sikvah could pick them up. The demons backed into tight knots, hissing and clawing at the air, terrified of the power that was building but afraid to run lest they turn their backs on whatever hunted them.
And then Rojer began to hurt them, driving the music into them in jarring, discordant waves that seemed to strike the creatures like physical blows. They screamed, some falling to the cobbles, clawing at their own heads as if they could tear the sound out and be free of it. Even the wind demons above shrieked in agony, but the music held them fast, and they could not flee, circling endlessly.
Rojer looked up and changed his tune again, calling the wind demons down from the night sky. The source of your pain is here! Strike now and silence it!
The windies dived with terrifying speed, but Rojer and his wives were not where the music led — off to the side, and several feet low. The wind demons struck the cobbles with incredible force, their hollow bones crunching and splintering on impact. In seconds, the square was littered with their corpses.
He turned to the wood demons next, howling like trees bent near to breaking in a gale. Rojer thought of the fire-eaters, Jongleurs in Angiers who pretended to swallow fire, then spat it back out again with a spark and a mouthful of alcohol. It was generally thought a ‘low’ act — dangerous flash used to hide a lack of talent. Jongleurs who did it often got hurt, and in the forest fortress, spitting fire was against the law save in very specific circumstances. It was usually an opening act for a Jongleur of more renown.
I have flame demons to open my act now, Rojer thought as he made the flamers spit fire on the wood demons, aiming them as easily as Wonda might her bow.
The wood demons caught fire immediately, and unlike the stone they were not immune to its effects. They shrieked and flailed, snatching up the flame demons and crushing the life from them, but it was too late. Black smoke billowed into a thick stinking cloud as they collapsed to the ground, immolated.
Only the stone demon remained, close to eight feet of muscle and sinew, covered in indestructible knobs like river stones. It stood silent as a statue, but Rojer knew it was desperately seeking them, a killing rage barely contained. He smiled.
The trio began to circle, intensifying the refrain, notes going ever higher even as they revealed more and more of the wards of amplification. The demon began to shriek, covering its head in its talons and looking frantically about for an escape, but they tightened their circle, and it seemed the pain came from all sides. The demon wobbled, then dropped to one knee, letting out a roar of agony as sweet as any music.
Even the folk around the square were covering their ears now. Rojer’s own head was ringing, ears aching, but he ignored the pain, taking his chin from the fiddle entirely.
The stone demon gave a final twist, and there was a crack! like an old oak snapping in a windstorm. Fissures spiderwebbed through the demon’s armour, and it fell to the ground, dead.
Rojer stopped playing instantly, and his wives followed. The square fell silent, and Rojer inhaled the hush before the roar.