Crusader. Novel by Sara Douglass

teeth made from razor-like bear claws, the broom had bristles of nails.

Each had elongated eyes towards the top of their handles, and each had tiny, clawed hands

protruding out just beneath their eyes.

“We’ve come to help you tend the field,” one of them whispered in a sing-song voice. “We’ve come

to do our very, very best!”

They rushed towards her.

Faraday fought down her fear, and did not flinch. She reacted with pure instinct, as she had when

confronted with the rat when trying to help the people of Carlon.

“Have you ever smelt the scent of the Field?” she asked pleasantly, and cast towards them every

memory she could dredge up of the overwhelming fragrance of the billions of flowers.

The rake and broom screamed, and then crumpled.

“Bitch!” one of them said, and then vanished with its companion.

Faraday blinked her eyes, and then turned slightly to see Axis and Azhure leaning over her.

She twisted back to DragonStar’s form, and grasped his hands tighter.

“Come back!” she said. “Come back!”

DragonStar and his hounds found Gwendylyr in tears, hunched over the still forms of her twin boys.

“They are not what they appear to be,” he said, and, as he spoke, the boys rose, their faces taking

on the likenesses of long-snouted dogs.

Sicarius and FortHeart snarled, stiff-legged.

DragonStar stared at the boys, perturbed more by the Demons’ ability to see inside their

minds than by the apparitions they chose to weave about them.

How had they known about Gwendylyr’s boys?

The two demonic dogs grinned, and their entire bodies waggled and writhed, as if highly

amused.

Then they quieted, and their fleshy lips drew back from their teeth. They snarled back at Sicarius

and FortHeart, and the two hounds sidled forward a pace or two, stiff-legged.

“No!” DragonStar commanded, and the Alaunt stopped. FortHeart flicked her eyes his way, and in

that instant the two Demons attacked.

Gwendylyr screamed, and DragonStar seized her by the shoulder and hauled her away from the

twisting, snarling pack of savagery before her. She stumbled, almost fell, just saved herself, and shrank

against a wall, her arms hugged tight about her, her face pale and wide-eyed as she stared at the dog

fight.

DragonStar stepped close to the four dogs and tried to seize either Sicarius’ or FortHeart’s ruff to

drag them back. Gods! He hadn’t wanted the two Alaunt to get involved in a one on one

fight with the Demons! Apparition and illusion this all might be, but DragonStar did not doubt it when

Qeteb said that any fatal wound delivered to any apparition would also deliver a fatal wound to the

reality.

All DragonStar received for his efforts was a savage bite to his left hand.

In the chamber in Sanctuary, Axis, Azhure and Faraday stared in alarm at the deep wound

that suddenly, unexplainably, appeared on DragonStar’s hand. Faraday seized a cloth from a

nearby table, and wrapped it tightly about DragonStar’s limp hand, staunching the flow of blood.

“What is happening?” Azhure said, aiding Faraday to tie up the bandage.

“I do not know,” Faraday answered, her voice tight and hard with frustration.

The pack was a writhing, twisting and largely indistinguishable mass of heat and teeth and ferocity.

Blood and sweat and pieces of fur scattered about as the four creatures within the pack wriggled and

wormed, each trying to get the death grip on the throat of their opponent.

DragonStar hesitated on the outer, not knowing what he should do. Curse his stupidity for

bringing the hounds into this nightmare —

A cascade of ice-cold water appeared from nowhere, drenching the dogs and soaking

through DragonStar’s shirt and breeches.

“It is easy to see that none of you have had to deal with a dog fight in the streets of Carlon,” said a

calm voice, and there was Goldman, standing to one side with his arms folded and a satisfied

look on his face.

DragonStar nodded at him, relieved not only that Goldman was well and had managed to find them,

but that he’d had the presence of mind (and enchantment) to do what was necessary.

The dogs had separated, Sicarius and FortHeart standing just in front of DragonStar, the two

Demons several paces away. All were wounded: Sicarius carried several deep gashes on his flanks,

while one of FortHeart’s ears hung almost completely severed and she limped badly on two of her legs.

The two Demons, also badly gashed, healed themselves simply by flowing back into their

humanoid forms complete with pastel-coloured gowns and smug faces.

It was Sheol and Mot.

Behind DragonStar, Goldman moved to stand with Gwendylyr. DragonStar glanced at his

two Alaunt. They were panting heavily, and were in obvious pain.

“We have you trapped,” Sheol said in a conversational enough tone, “in our mansion of

dreams. How do you think you will get out, DragonStar?”

DragonStar held her gaze easily. “By wishing you love,” he said.

Sheol flinched, and Mot instinctively took a step back, but before anyone could say and do anything

else, the hunchbacked, wizened old man appeared behind the other two Demons, cackling with

laughter.

He still held the knife in his hand, but he was laughing so hard it hung useless at his side.

“Love! Love!” the old man cried. “You wish me love, DragonStar? Is that how you think to defeat

me? By redeeming me? You utter fool! Ah, bah!” And the man suddenly raised his arm and slashed the

knife through the air.

Goldman, Gwendylyr and the two hounds disappeared.

“It is time you and I talked, my Enemy,” Qeteb said, and assumed his true form. “There are some

things I ought to explain.”

The forms of Goldman and Gwendylyr gasped and twitched, then their eyes flew open.

“What’s happening?” Faraday cried, seizing Goldman by the hands.

“Qeteb has DragonStar,” Goldman said, and looked at Axis.

Axis stared at him, then switched his gaze to the still limp and insensible form of DragonStar.

Chapter 21

Legal Niceties

Do you recognise the place?” Qeteb said, and waved a hand about. “I thought you might feel more at

home here.”

But for the moment DragonStar could not take his eyes from Qeteb. The Demon had assumed a form

that was a reflection of DragonStar himself, save that his body was better muscled, his face less lined,

and his mouth far more sensual.

DragonStar wondered why he’d assumed so close a likeness, and then thought that perhaps Qeteb

wanted to remind him of the close blood relationship between the body the Demon inhabited —

WolfStar’s son — and DragonStar, who was WolfStar’s grandson.

Qeteb had dressed himself elegantly in shades of grey and ivory, his hair neatly combed, his

hands folded innocently before him.

He wore no weapons.

Qeteb stood waiting, his handsome face wearing an air of exaggerated patience, and so DragonStar

looked about.

They were standing in the kitchens of Sigholt. The tables were spread with the implements of

cooking — bowls, foodstuffs and sundry knives and spoons — and the ranges glowed comfortingly

against the far wall.

Four cats lay curled up in front of the ranges: all bald, and all with horns protruding from their skulls.

Qeteb grinned. “Would you like to cook for me?”

DragonStar walked about the table before him, running his finger lightly over its surface. “You know

a great deal about me,” he said.

“I have had a great deal of spare time in recent millennia to learn a great deal,” Qeteb said, and

clapped his hands together once, sharply.

Instantly the cooking ingredients and implements before DragonStar transformed. A meal appeared

before him — roast meats, pastries, mounds of steaming and well-buttered vegetables. The table was

laid with heavy silver and cut crystal, and ruby wine glowed in pitchers and the tall-stemmed glasses.

The table was laid for two.

Qeteb picked up one of the glasses and sipped. “Ah, yes. Tasty. Dry but full-bodied. Won’t you

have some?”

DragonStar did not reply, moving so that the table remained between him and Qeteb at all times.

Qeteb smiled again, all congeniality and consideration. “Please, sit. It was so convenient for

you and your … ah, what do you call them? your “witches”, to drop in like that. I apologise for the

indulgence of the mansion. I couldn’t resist playing a little.”

DragonStar made no reply.

“Ah, please, do sit,” Qeteb said. “We’ve both had a few hard days recently, and surely a good

meal and a long chat will relax us.”

DragonStar did not move.

Qeteb noisily pulled out a chair and seated himself, lifting a snowy napkin and making a great show

of placing it on his lap. “Please … sit.”

DragonStar did not move.

“Sit!” Qeteb said, a hardness now underlying his voice, and DragonStar found himself bodily lifted

up and placed in the chair opposite Qeteb.

A napkin gracefully unfolded and slid itself solicitously over DragonStar’s lap.

Trying to take back the initiative — if ever he’d had it since Qeteb had trapped him within this illusion