Copyright © Elana A. Mugdan 2016
www.allentria.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Jaka Prawira
Interior Art by Neiratina
ISBN: 978-1-5323-8794-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020925272
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Table Of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
BOOK II AVAILABLE NOW!
GLOSSARY & PRONUNCIATIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“You are already everything you need to be.”
~ Arisse Chardreilas, Twelfth Age
PROLOGUE
Second Age, Year 942
GROUGE WAS A SECOND-RATE DEMON AT BEST, but he took pride in guarding his Master’s citadel. It perched near the summit of Mount Arax, so Grouge would be able to spot approaching enemies from leagues away . . . not that any enemies would dare approach. The fortress’s black walls rose from the cliffs of the volcano, and its arches, turrets, and spires were all laced with defensive wards.
Grouge was supposed to be guarding the citadel with his life—or, more accurately, afterlife—but he was secure in the knowledge that it was impenetrable. He curled his barbed tail around his squat, feline body, closed his black eyes, and rolled onto his side for a well-deserved nap.
A loud thud jolted him awake and he sprang to his feet, whiskers aquiver. He looked for the source of the disturbance, but the winding steps below were empty. No patrols circled the skies overhead either, which was odd because there were always patrols.
Just when Grouge had managed to convince himself everything was fine, a sharp edge pressed against his throat.
“Don’t make a sound.” A voice, soft yet resonant with power, breathed in his tufted ear. “Nod to show you understand.”
Grouge whimpered and nodded. The blade left his neck and his attacker stepped into view.
It was a human warrior, garbed in tattered brown robes that marked him as one of the rebels. Though he looked young, his head was haloed by a mane of white hair. Volcanic drafts blew back a few stray strands, revealing a pale face set with glowing purple eyes. He was a rheenar, one of the deadliest foes a demon could encounter.
“You were a manticore when you were alive, yes? Can you speak?” the man asked. Grouge nodded again. “Speak, demon. I won’t hurt you.”
“Yes.” Grouge’s fear of annihilation ebbed away, only to be replaced by the fear of what would happen when the Master discovered this human had breached the citadel’s defenses.
“I wish to meet with Necrovar. I come in peace.”
“You’ve a strange way of showing it,” Grouge muttered.
Surprisingly, the mortal sheathed his sword and raised his hands, as if in surrender. “There. Now, will you please bring me to your master? According to the rules of war, you must allow me to speak with him.”
Grouge hesitated. He didn’t want to admit it, but he didn’t actually know the rules of war.
A shudder whisked across his blackened withers as he considered the warrior. There was something off about the man’s angular visage—it was too symmetrical, too perfect. The more he stared, the more it seemed this human didn’t look human at all. Still, he’d asked nicely to be brought to the Master. He’d said he was there in peace. Nobody so polite would lie about their motives, would they?
“Fine,” Grouge grumbled, ignoring his misgivings. “Follow me, flesh-rat.”
He led the man through the citadel’s pillar-lined entryway, proceeding through heavy doors that parted for them with the grinding of stone. As soon as they were in the stronghold, they met a patrol squad.
The squad captain had once been human. Now, he was something both more and less than a human. He’d died and had been resurrected as a demon, complete with midnight flesh and vacant eyes, their scleras and irises swallowed by unbroken darkness.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the captain demanded. His troops gaped at the rheenar, shocked to see a rebel walking about freely in their home.
“I’m bringing this man to the Master,” Grouge replied nervously, his tail curling between his hind legs. “He has requested a meeting, as per the rules of war.”
“Necrovar is expecting me,” the human added.
The captain failed to hide the crease of fear on his brow. His black eyes flicked to Grouge. “Proceed, soldier. We wouldn’t want to keep the Master waiting.”
Grouge burned with curiosity as he led the man through the maze of halls. What made the flesh-rat so certain he would survive this visit? Granted, he was doing a good job so far, but what trick did he have up his sleeve?
“Why must you talk to the Master?” Grouge asked at last.
“I have something to offer him.”
Grouge wracked his tiny brain to come up with a suitably clever follow-up. “Why are you offering it?”
“Because he would take it from me anyway. Not all of it, but . . . ” The man trailed off, glancing away. The gravity of his statement was lost on Grouge.
They rounded another corner, and there it was. The arched entrance to the Master’s lair was engraved with jagged runes. Two demon direwolves stood guard on each side of the door, and the moment they spotted the intruder, they charged.
In an attempt to appear as powerful and commanding as the warrior, Grouge stepped forward and cried, “Halt!” The guards slowed to a walk, snarling and snapping their jaws. “This man is here in peace. He has requested a meeting with the Master.”
The direwolves grudgingly moved aside as Grouge and the warrior approached the door. Skeins of shimmering necromagic cobwebbed across it, and while demons could pass through without
harm, Grouge wasn’t sure the human could do the same.
The warrior drew his magnificent sword and sliced through the dark threads. The necromagic fizzled and spat as the barrier vanished.
“Right,” Grouge muttered. “Stay here until I announce you.”
“I need no announcement. As I said, Necrovar is expecting me.” With a twirl of his cloak, the man vanished into the throne room.
Grouge considered fleeing. If the mortal had come looking for a fight, it would be best to get as far away as demonly possible. But the warrior had said he had something to offer the Master.
Though Grouge knew eavesdropping was rude—not to mention treasonous, when one was eavesdropping on one’s superiors—he crept through the antechamber on padded paws and peeked into the obsidian room beyond. Golden, claw-shaped brackets clung to the walls, clutching torches that illuminated the vaulted ceiling. Cast-iron urns of blue fire flickered on a raised dais at the head of the hall, flanking a great dragonbone throne. Seated on that throne was the Master.
Like His demons, He had once been something else: a human. There was no humanity left in Him now. His rotted black skin was too taut for His horned skull, and His flesh ripped when His features moved too drastically, revealing pitted bone beneath. Pinpricks of yellow-orange light danced in empty eye sockets, serving as His pupils. Like a raging wildfire or a bloodthirsty hurricane, He was a wonder and a terror to behold.
“. . . that is why you’re here, not for any noble, self-sacrificing reasons. Your hatred has destroyed you.” The Master spoke down to the warrior, who stood alone in the middle of the room. Grouge quaked at the sound of His rich baritone.
“I know what I’m doing. This is no mistake.”
“So you think,” was the snide reply. “I wonder what your mother would say?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” the warrior said stiffly. “For all I know, she’s dead.”
“Ahh . . . if you only knew the truth, Valerion.”
Grouge’s stomach plummeted. He’d brought Valerion of the Unknown Lands into the citadel, the evil, murderous lightmagic-wielder who led the mortal races of Selaras in rebellion against the Master.
Grouge was a dead demon.
“You’ve been stuffing your head with those stories your followers tell,” said the Master. “You so desperately want to believe you are the hero the world has been waiting for.”
“Do you want what I’ve offered, or not?” Valerion’s voice crackled with tension.
“Obviously I want it. And I will grant your request. When you die, I shall resurrect you—not as a demon, but as your own, true self.”
A chill raced along Grouge’s spine. What had Valerion offered as payment for such a reward? Grouge had paid dearly when he’d made his own deal with the Master, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember what he’d traded for a second chance at life.
“Then take it,” Valerion growled.
The Master’s eyes narrowed. “Why the rush?”
“Why the hesitation? If you do this, you’ll be the most powerful wielder in the world.”
“I am the most powerful wielder in the world.” There was no trace of arrogance in the Master’s voice. He was stating a fact.
“But this way, you could restore balance between the magics and bring us peace,” said Valerion. “Isn’t that what you’ve been fighting for all this time?”
The Master stood and descended from the dais, approaching the warrior with the fluid grace of a serpent.
“It is.”
He began to wield His magic. With a single gesture, He wrenched the shadows from their resting places. Valerion stood still as wisps of darkness encased him, his eyes glinting through the gloom like two purple stars in an empty universe.
The Master summoned the shadows from the antechamber next, and Grouge felt horribly exposed. A wintry wind filled the air, howling and wailing in horror. It was bright, it was dim, and then . . . it was silent. The shadows, exhausted, slunk back to where they belonged.
“You know this means I’ve won?” The Master sounded breathless. “If you sign a surrender treaty, I vow no more blood will be spilled.”
Valerion said nothing.
“Your stubbornness is of no consequence to me. I have what I need, and those who choose to fight deserve the deaths that await them.”
Still no reply.
“I could kill you, Valerion,” the Master murmured. “I should kill you.” But He made no move to do so.
Grouge stewed in anticipation. Why didn’t He strike down His most dangerous enemy?
“We are finished here. You may see yourself out, but rest assured, I will not be so merciful the next time we meet.”
“We won’t meet again,” said Valerion. His voice was weak, an echo of its former glory.
“No? Do you think you can hide from me, you foolish child? I own your soul now—you have no more magic. You cannot fight me.”
Valerion had given the Master his soul? If he had relinquished the source of his life and magic, how was he still alive? Without a soul, you were little more than a hollow husk, though Grouge had no idea how he knew that. This deal—a soul in exchange for a life—felt eerily familiar.
“I don’t need to fight. This war is over.” Valerion turned his back on the Master and strode away.
Grouge’s paws scrabbled against the floor as he tried to flee, but it was too late. Valerion entered the antechamber. The warrior’s calm eyes met Grouge’s terrified ones for a heartbeat. Then he was gone, off to fight his way out of the citadel with only his sword to defend himself.
Grouge had no choice but to obey the telepathic summons. His belly filled with dread as he crawled into the room and forced himself to look at the Shadow Lord.
“Well?” said the Master. “What did you make of that?”
“I . . . I think—I think it will serve you well to have Valerion’s magic,” Grouge spluttered.
The Master nodded, tapping the tips of His clawed fingers together. “For the first time in a long time, I am not certain I’ve done the right thing. Valerion has handed me victory. It doesn’t make sense. Did he say anything to you?”
“Nothing, Master. Except . . . when I asked why he was offering his gift, he said you would take it from him anyway—”
The Master grinned, ripping the skin around His mouth.
“—but not all of it.”
The Master stopped smiling, and that frightened Grouge too much to say anything else. He didn’t know how long the Master stood thinking. It felt like ten ages passed them by.
A shuddering noise broke the stillness, a noise that pierced Grouge to the marrow of his shadowy bones. It reminded him of a ceaseless dying breath slipping from someone’s lips.
The Master’s fiery gaze snapped to the far end of His chamber. A purple vapor was shimmering through His private exit. One curious tendril peeked into the throne room.
“What is that, Master?” Grouge whispered, his hackles rising.
“Someone is wielding against us.”
The Master strode forward. The vapor directed its attention toward Him, its aimless swirls coalescing into a focused point. The Master flicked His hand in a gesture of banishment, counter-wielding to dispel the smog.
It was not dispelled.
Grouge’s jaw dropped. He had never seen the Master magically bested. The Master tried again, waving His hand in an arc and contracting His fingers.
The vapor reared in a sinuous strand, a misty cobra preparing to strike. The Master gestured once more, retreating from His foe.
In that movement, Grouge saw defeat. The corded muscles of his body tensed and he catapulted from the throne room. He raced past the direwo
lves and careened through the warren of corridors.
He stopped when he reached the great hall. The vapor was there, too, and scores of demons were snared in its clutches. Where the mist touched them, they melted.
“Master!” One desperate demon cried for her sovereign as the lethal haze wrapped around her neck, turning her to slush. She was dead. No, worse than that—she was nothing.
Hugging the edge of the room, Grouge wove his way through a treacherous tangle of mist, the agonized screams of his comrades echoing in his ears.
“No,” he gasped, coming to another grinding halt outside. Glowing purple raindrops fell from the sky. Demons streamed from the citadel in a mass exodus, but the rain was melting them much as the mist had.
Grouge was trapped.
A necrocrelai, one of the born-demons, ran by. It was Shädar, second in command to the Master. He wasn’t flying because he’d injured his bat-wings in the last battle with the rebels, and he was wielding to shield himself from the toxic deluge. Grouge raced under the protective necromagical shield and followed.
Shädar took the path to the summit of Mount Arax. His whiplike tail lashed, belting Grouge in the face as he struggled to keep up with the longer strides of the humanoid demon.
They crested the flat lip of the crater. Grouge spotted the Master standing alone at the edge of the mountain’s gaping volcanic maw, defying the wrath of the heavens.
An ear-splitting thunderclap sent Grouge into hysterics. He looked up and saw that the sky was opening—opening!—tearing itself apart, leading into an unknown void. Purple lightning crackled around the edges of the rift, illuminating the peaks and valleys of boiling black clouds.
“My liege,” Shädar growled when he reached the Master. “What is this? Are the dragons finally fighting us?”
“One dragon is.” An alien expression darkened the Master’s gruesome features. “Or two, depending on how you look at things.”
An arm of purple fire lashed from the hole in the sky, arcing toward them like a terrible, wayward solar flare. The Master wielded to repel it and the two magics met in an explosion that knocked Grouge clean off his feet.
“Try and claim me, Valerion,” the Master bellowed. “You will fail! I am the balance! I am omnipotent! I have your soul!”
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