A Manifold of Bindings (The Scrolls of Azbel Book 2)

by John Mangold

  Daimos pulled from his fractured Focus once more and removed himself from beneath the beast, reappearing in a more vertical position directly behind his would-be executioner. He still held enough power in his stores to grant this feeble-minded experiment a death to match its associate, and Daimos had a mind to use his energy for just that purpose. However, the chance to act slipped from his armored grip as the world disappeared in a blast of blinding light and pain.

  Pain. That was a sensation he had not experienced in some time, but it filled what remained of his organic body, nonetheless. As he came to, he found himself prone once more in a circle of burning debris. The clouds above him spun furiously as the tempest formed an iris far above, its pupil interwoven with arcing bolts, not unlike the one that had just struck him. Daimos attempted to lift himself, but an armor encased foot pressed down on his chest, forcing him prone.

  “Having some difficulty amassing power?” Izzagu’s voice cackled through the throat of Iblis, somewhere off to Daimos’s right. “I should think so. You procure your power from technological sources and their inner workings. Yet it was you who chose to scour this island clean with your miasmic detonation, inadvertently producing the perfect arena for your demise. As I asked before, fittingly ironic, no?

  “Now, I am certain you have a witty rejoinder brewing, but there is no time. You see, while your powers seeped from your broken Focus, mine have swelled, fueled by the tempest above. I now intend to release that primal fury upon you, granting but a glimpse of the thousand years of agony you cursed me with. I wish I could provide more, but time is fleeting, and as you so often remind me, I am not a patient man.”

  Looking up, helpless to stop Izzagu, Daimos watched as the clouds above swirled like vultures over a rotting corpse. The cloud's central eye glowed malevolently as a bolt of mythical proportions gestated in the heavens above. Dragging in what was sure to be his final breath, Daimos’s body stiffened in anticipation of the killing strike. So centered was he on his impending demise, it took a full three pulses to realize the clouds above had frozen, the waves on the shore had ceased their pounding, and the ash was now frozen midair. Time had not been slowed; it had utterly stopped.

  In a blink, the typhoon above, in all its static beauty, was gone, taking the island with it. In fact, they were no longer on the island, but far below it, in a chamber that still held the grandeur of the palace that once stood above. Izzagu stumbled back from Daimos, confused by the sudden change of surroundings, but Daimos knew full well what this turn of events signaled. The owner of these shattered lands had returned, which did not bode well for either of them.

  As Daimos regained his proper stance, he turned to find his salvation's benefactor, but it was not a lengthy search. The whole of the ancient chamber radiated with his presence, filling Daimos’s withered soul with a sense of distress nothing on Azbel could inspire. There, at the head of the room, standing before a bank of ancient monitoring devices, stood the Sorcerer Lord Dorjakt, appraising them both like a schoolmaster preparing to correct two unruly pupils.

  Dorjakt’s head was spear bald, his face lacking even a trace of hair right down to the absence of eyebrows. His skin was as pale as the ash above, yet from beneath its porcelain surface emanated a malevolence outstripping anything mortality could project. Running down the center of his forehead and tracing his skull's highpoints were inscribed one binding on top of another, creating an immensely complex skull tattoo, squirming ever so slowly as it defined his features.

  His shoulders and upper body were dressed in a style of armor none living on Azbel would recognize, hailing from an era predating the very first demon incursion. His lower body was draped in an intricate robe, hand-sewn by the woman whose name now graced the toxic chunk of land above. Everything in Dorjakt’s stance and demeanor spoke of a being that had passed the veil of death and returned with that indomitable force at his beck and call. He was the very personification of death itself, as capable of taking life as taking his next breath if the fiend breathed at all.

  Izzagu stumbled back as he beheld the vision before him. His eyes beneath the mask held a look of madness driven terror. That hideous mouth twisted from his standard rigor mortis grin as a ruined throat struggled to form intelligible words. The gurgling that escaped his leprous lips matched no known language, but his body language interpreted his garbled words flawlessly.

  “You…are…dead.”

  “Izzagu,” Dorjakt responded, his voice calm and commanding at once. “You always were a flawed creation, even before the meddling of Daimos. I would have ended your torment immediately, but you have proven so very useful.”

  “You…cannot be…you are dead!” Izzagu continued to gurgle, managing a bit more clarity this time.

  “Yes,” Dorjakt agreed. “Your grasp of the obvious has grown ever stronger with time, even if your intelligence has not. Very well, you have served your purpose. I release you from your torment. Join your compatriots in the cold embrace of Azbel.”

  There was no spell cast, at least none Daimos could have perceived, but the results of Dorjakt’s intentions were immediate and horrifying, even to one such as he. Izzagu simply fell apart. Much like leaves falling from a tree, his robes and his mask slid from his frame, then his twisted flesh dried and floated to the ground as dust, then his bones calcified before Daimos’s eyes, collapsing to the ground and shattering across the floor like crockery. Just before the flesh turned, Daimos thought he heard two screams echo outward, one of pain-filled horror, the other of joyous release, but to who each belonged, he could not tell.

  Daimos returned his gaze to Dorjakt to find the Sorcerer Lord staring directly back at him. No word was spoken, but Daimos knew full well what had earned him this judgmental glare. He had violated Dorjakt’s orders. He had hindered Maluem and would have killed her outright had Izzagu not gotten in the way. After witnessing his fellow Sorcerer Lord’s demise, this course of action no longer seemed as wise as it once had. Nonetheless, he had no intention of facing his fate as that worm had.

  “I could not let Maluem take the Cell,” Daimos explained. “You know how long I have labored to perfect my plans. Without your source, I cannot control so many bindings. Without that manifold to aid my power, my territories will fall into chaos. I know what your commands were, but you never informed me-”

  “I told you what you were required to know,” Dorjakt broke in, the power of his voice silencing Daimos. “Nothing more. That is how it has always been and how it shall always be. Understand, Daimos, the only guarantee I offered you at the inception of my scheme was that you would have a significant role. I never explained in what capacity that would be.

  “Know this, you will serve me just as well in death as you have in life. One phase of your existence will fit my purposes just as readily as the other. Since you ignored my specific commands, you must now convince me daily which form will serve me better. Consider Izzagu’s example as an incentive to re-evaluate what is more vital, your thirst for power, or your very existence.”

  With Dorjakt’s final word, the chamber vanished. Daimos found himself standing once more on the surface of the Tear of Azeza. Wind gripped onto his robes and tore at his wings, stirring up the island's leaden ash with its passing. The storm that Izzagu had raised raged above the ocean, its uninhibited energies exploding in a web of lightning bolts that danced among the clouds. Lord Daimos watched distractedly as those deadly forces played out before him, considering the analogy of that fierce beauty to the imminent chaos on Azbel’s horizon.

 

 

 
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