Slowly, the marble of the floor in the center of the containment ring began to glow red, and a black cloud of oily soot gathered above a crack that had appeared in the center of the ring. The thin strands of what appeared to be ash swirled about the ring, gathering in the center before spinning up, reaching for the ceiling. The Master increased the pace of the chant and wiped away a driblet of sweat. Her eyes were clamped tight as she concentrated on the calling.
Flames and pungent sulfur-laden smoke belched forth and soured the air in the room. Several of the slaves fought to keep from losing the contents of their stomachs when the nauseating stench made the room seem to spin in slow motion. The sickening mustard-yellow plume spread out slowly, dancing across the floor, shifting in appearance from smoke to writhing bodies and back again as the tower of black soot firmed and the Demon Lord, known only as the Warvyn, stood.
Warvyn, master of the lower planes, stretched tall and straightened his polished armor, his leg muscles rippled and his biceps flexed as he lowered his dragon skin shield and turned around to face his caller. His magnificent black tattered wings stretched out to the sides several paces, forcing the Master to duck out of the way as he turned. He knew where he was. He knew who had called him, and why.
He cursed under his breath, because, strong as he was, he couldn’t resist the calling. Although he took some degree of satisfaction in knowing that they now had to sacrifice a slave. His strength had grown to the point where he could resist their minor containment spells. This spell was more of a ... compulsion he couldn’t resist or delay. Not yet!
The five wizards of the Keep, shackled together with the Ewaiyi, were helpless to do anything other than watch in horror, cowered as the demon coalesced and became of this plane. The chain that bound them, an ancient artifact from the battles of Ror, prevented them from using magic unless commanded by either the Master or his Lich.
Warvyn snorted and steam escaped his nostrils as white gore slid down his cheeks from his eye sockets. He growled at the mages cowering on the floor forcing one of them to soil himself. Warvyn roared in amusement. This plane bothered him, the air was unfit to breathe and the climate was cold, harsh and uninviting. He did not wish to be here, and would never voluntarily visit this vile world.
The one known only as the Master sat red-faced on deep satin pillows stacked high on the marble throne. This demon, known as Warvyn, arrogantly stood inside the containment ring with his head held high, his brass chest plate polished and his rune stones strung in a fine silver necklace about his throat. His left hand held a pulsing ball of hellfire and his right, a curved enchanted dagger called Nightshade. He would bow to no mortal, wizard, Dark Mage or any other creature that walked the plane. He was the most feared and respected demon of the lower planes.
“You have failed,” the Master screamed. “You have had years, no— decades to infiltrate the Keep, and yet you bring me nothing but excuses.”
Warvyn’s deep rumbling voice filled the room. “Their magic is strong ... their Keep protected by old magic of the Ten.”
“Excuses!” the Master screamed as lightning jumped from extended hands to the ceiling and spread like a thick web. The twisted red elemental screeched in excitement of being let loose and searched for something to devour. The servants all shielded their eyes and watched in amazement as the spindly creature leapt about from chandelier to chandelier. Finding little, it rushed down the far wall and assailed a servant, causing the man to twitch and convulse, foaming at the mouth before it was dismissed.
“Your tirade doesn’t change the truth of the matter.”
The Master stood quickly and rushed forward, shoving a thin finger in the giant demon’s face, standing just clear of the containment, knowing full well that Warvyn would show no mercy if the contracts of the spell were violated.
“Their magic is child’s play. They have no real magic.”
The magi along the edge of the room knew it was true and hung their heads in shame. The Lich, who held their chain, kept his opinions to himself. He had felt the power of the wizards of the Keep, specifically one wizard. What he had felt that night was a power far greater than any he had ever felt or even imagined. He had felt the touch of a god.
“Maybe that is true for the current wizards, but those who warded the Keep did indeed possess and command powerful magic,” the Warvyn reminded the evil one. “It is their magic that we struggle against. Even after all these years it still protects and lingers like the black plague, either unwilling or unable to let go of its earthly attachments. It has not weakened as you promised! As for the wizards, you know well that they never venture out from those walls.”
The Master waved off the comment. “Magic of the Ten?”
“They were powerful enough to destroy you and your kind, as well as vanquish me back to the planes,” the demon reminded as he chuckled out loud, for it had been a glorious battle, worthy indeed.
“They were lucky!” the Master spat back, spraying spittle in his face. “Given more time, we would have won!”
Warvyn wiped his chin clean with the back of his hand and stared down at the intricate containment circle, trying to find a flaw, any flaw in its execution, although he didn’t expect to find one. This dark one was careful, and exacting. He wished more than anything to end this game they played. He grew tired of being summoned and of the demanding tasks.
“We?” the demon scoffed. “You were not even part of the elite. They sent you away in disgrace, your tail between your legs.”
The Master answered sharply, “And yet I live, they do not.”
Warvyn expressed contempt, “The last of your kind.”
“Not so,” said the Master. “For now we are four and soon I will train more.”
Warvyn raised his brow, surprised at her admission.
“What should I do with you?” The master asked, with an iron gaze. “I am thinking I should destroy you.”
Warvyn couldn’t help but crack a thin grin on his giant maw, exposing his forked tongue and sharp fangs. His eyes narrowed and glowed orange as rage filled him. “You may try, but I fear that you will just end up becoming ... frustrated.”
The Master’s eyes narrowed and twitched as the insulting words sunk in. None of which was seen by the demon because of the shadows that hid the Master’s face deep behind the black hooded robe.
The Master thought carefully on this before responding. “Perhaps, but I can make you suffer excruciating pain until the end of time. I can kill you and torture you for hours on end. You will know no peace.”
“I am accustomed to pain, and you have no idea how long eternity is. You hold no dominion over that gift. The Dark Lord of the underworld is far more practiced in that art, and far more creative in his ... how shall we say this ... torture. You best be glad he hasn’t taken an interest in you yet!”
The Master snorted.
Warvyn laughed at the misplace arrogance. “He eventually will. Your powers come with a hefty price. It is only a matter of time.”
The Master glowered as the smug demon refused to yield. In the blink of an eye, hands were extended and filled with the vile filth of the darkest of magic. Demonic chants escaped the Master’s lips, which were quivering with wrath.
The nauseating green and purple tendrils snaked across the floor and wrapped Warvyn by the legs, withering him and desiccating him as he stood. His bones began to crack, his body contorted, the evil magic taking hold. The weight of his giant frame became too much for the weakened limbs to withstand. First, his ankles shattered, then his legs gave way, causing him to fall to the ground. His face felt wet and he wiped the back of his giant hand across his brow and saw blood. He opened his maw, extended his forked tongue, and licked it clean. A wide grin filled his face, as he refused to flinch or give the Master any satisfaction.
The Master growled. “I should kill you here and now.”
Warvyn pushed himself up weakly with an arm and steadied his voice before he spoke. “Then send me back to the l
ower planes that I might escape the boredom of listening to you complain and whine.”
The master screamed incoherently and let the magic flow. The Master’s face turned dark, eyes sunk into their sockets, and the vile darkness which was served came billowing out. The beast known as the Warvyn turned to dust and returned to the lower planes.
The Dark Mage stood quietly, staring at the pile of ash in the center of the containment and instantly wove the summoning again, watching as the demon reappeared.
“As you can see, I am still in one piece is spite of your petty tricks.”
The Master screamed and shook a fist, “I want results, or I will permanently keep you between the planes. Now go!”
The Warvyn hid his grin and faked a bow before turning into a black sooty mist that sank into the floor.
The Master sat on the dais and thought. The Warvyn was not the only option available for infiltrating the Keep, but it was the easiest. Time was running out. According to the clerics, the prophecy had already come to pass, the Breaker had been born. She had failed to prevent that from happening, although she had been sure that the Nagracumulo had taken care of it. The wizards of the Keep had to be dealt with now, before they became a bigger problem.
The Master nodded in the direction of the lead servant. The thin man, dressed in rough cotton, was caught off guard and quickly motioned aggressively at the young cleaning girls to clean the floor and remove the body of the slave who had died for their cause. Two slaves rushed out, grabbed the dead slave by his feet, and dragged him off to be consumed by the beasts held in the bowels of the rundown castle, leaving streaks of blood in a serpentine trail on the floor. The three girls, dressed in thin gossamer silk, hurried to the middle of the floor carrying rags and a pail of water and began scrubbing the gore and ash off the marble. As they splashed and knelt, their thin outfits became wet and clung luridly to their supple frames, leaving little to the imagination. The Master watched with mild amusement for a while before she stood and walked out of the room.
After leaving the throne room, the Master threw back her hood, gathered her thoughts and cemented her plan. She had been mulling over her choices for a long time and had narrowed her choices down. She had hoped that the demon would have been able to accomplish his task. It would have made her life easier; however, her backup plan was almost as good.
She hurried down the dark hall, her footsteps echoing on the uneven stone floor. She turned the corner, stopped in front of her room, and dismissed the thin-as-spider-silk magic wards before she pushed the carved slab door. The two demon guards oozed from the space between the door and the frame and slid back into the shadows, waiting for their Master to call them to service again.
The room was dark, shuttered and cold from the still foul weather outside. It suited her mood, dark and brooding. She had waited years, centuries, to get her revenge. Now was her time.
She wove a quick spell with her hands and waited for the candles to light and the fire to come to flame in the hearth. After allowing time for her eyes to adjust, she crossed the room, stepping on thick bear skin rugs that covered the frosty floor. On the far side of the room, under the picture windows that looked out over the snow-capped mountains, sat a simple wooden table that held a single item, a metal chest.
She walked over to the mystical silver chest and caressed it lovingly, watching the runes shift under her touch. She held her hand over the seamless surface and chanted. The metal glowed white, parted, and revealing the hinged top, divided down the middle. As a precaution, she pulled a hairpin free from her head and after quickly pricking her finger, allowed a single drop of blood to fall into the mouth of a demon sculpted into the lid. The demon’s tongue appeared out of nowhere and pulled the droplet into the slot in the center of the lid. She felt, rather, she sensed the remaining wards and death spells release and dissipate. She pried open the lid and smiled with satisfaction.
The chest held but a single item, a book cradled in deep red velour. The ancient tome, bound with animal skin, tattooed and embossed with glyphs of magic, sat on the red velveteen bag that had held her treasure safe since the days of Ror.
The bag had a single gold letter stitched with such elegant skill that it mimicked fine art. The large ‘D’ was possibly the initial of the original owner, she smirked, Duvall perhaps? Alternatively, maybe the ‘D’ stood for demon. She wasn’t sure. She shrugged to herself, it didn’t matter. She knew not who had created the tome, or even who had once held it. She had accidently come upon the tome while trying to find artifacts from the last battle at Ror. She had no idea how it had survived or how it avoided detection. The book, the Tome of Rah’tok, was also known as the Book of Spirits, or the Book of the Dead if you used low Torren for the translation. Mayhap the ‘D’ stood for dead. She acknowledged her own cleverness, because it fit perfectly.
She gingerly lifted the tome from its home and cradled it in her arms, feeling its unnatural warmth. She cracked it open and scanned a couple of pages recalling all manner of spells and incantations to raise and control demons and the dead. Of course, they were all committed to memory now, but she still loved seeing the written characters, drawings and even smelling the fear that filled the pages.
Her backup plan required her to give it back to the wizards of the Keep, more specifically to a single wizard to be, the one known as the Breaker. It was a dangerous plan, but she had weighed the other options and decided it was best. She tucked the book under her arm and walked to the door, resetting the wards as she walked with determination back to her throne.
The halls were cold, empty and poorly lit. It had taken her centuries to restore this place, and still there was much work to be done. She was running out of time, and the new magi she trained were taking longer than she had planned. She set the book on her throne and turned, eyeing the slaves. She walked slowly up and down the line as the slaves stood with their heads lowered. She stopped in front of a young man and using a finger raised his head and stared into his eyes. She lowered his head and walked down several more places before she spotted a young man, a new follower from the eastern realm of Dhruven, captured during the last raid.
She walked around the young man and put a hand to his cheek. “Do you love your queen?”
His eyes fluttered and she saw a shiver run down his spine while he nodded. That pleased her.
“Are you willing to die for your queen?”
His face turned pale but he once again nodded. Whether out of fear or stupidity, she didn’t know. They always nodded.
“I am in great need. I will reward you heavily, but I am afraid it will be very painful.”
The lad cleared his throat and spoke in the heavy accent of his region, “I live ta serve, my queen.”
She reached up and extended her fingers across his face, her palm resting on his nose, and began chanting. His face went blank, and his eyes rolled back exposing the whites . His body lifted off the floor several inches and hung there in the still air, arching backwards. His feet twitched, as did his hands.
When she finished her casting, she lowered him to the ground and commanded, “Lay down.”
The lad’s body stiffened and he pivoted on his heels as she kept her hand over his face. He slowly pivoted to the cold floor and then rolled to his back. She released his face.
She knew the floor was cold and saw his nipples go hard on his muscular chest. The people of Dhruven were forest people. They grew up in the deep wood; most of them were carpenters or loggers. They were a fit, muscular people from years of toil in the woods, swinging an axe, working a saw, adz, or from just wearing a harness and dragging logs after they had been harvested.
“Lay on your stomach,” she commanded and watched as he obeyed.
She removed her robe, exposing herself, her snow white hair cascading halfway down her back. She tossed the thick fur robe to the throne and stepped over the lad. She wore little other than a belt, a thin strip of a leather loincloth and tall leather boots, laced up to her knees. A ga
udy gold necklace of woven glyphs hung from her neck and partially obscured her ample breasts. Bells were stitched into her thighs, shaped like small snakes that hissed softly when she walked. She walked luridly around the lad, running her toes along his side.
A hushed murmur emanated from the back of the room where her slaves were huddled, breaking her concentration. Her head snapped around and she hissed at them, causing them to shrink back against the embossed wall.
“What is your name?”
“C-C-Chad, Chad Merriman,” the lad replied.
“Well Chad, you just lay there quietly,” she said sternly, as she straddled the lad. She lowered herself until she was sitting on his thighs. She shifted her position, trying to make herself more comfortable, grinding her hips into his. He could feel the cold sting of her viper bells as they nipped at his legs. The intoxicating venom made him quiver in delight.
She unclipped a very delicate, dragon shaped dagger from her stone studded belt, set it in the small of his back, and began chanting, while tracing patterns of ancient glyphs onto his back using the dragons tail. Soon, the glyphs began to glow and the outline rose into a welt. The lad started chanting with her and for several minutes, they continued.
She waved her hand and called her first servant to her side. “Bring me the chalice and my pen.”
The short barefoot man with the shaved head hurried off to the cabinet at the far end of the room and grabbed what she had requested from the table, placing them on a rectangular silver tray. He hurried back and set the items next to his queen, dropped to all fours and then shuffled backwards to a safe distance all while keeping his eyes focused on the floor. He served his queen, but he wanted nothing to do with the magic she possessed.
The Third Sign Page 41
