For a few moments, the dark wasteland resembled a fragment of light realm, then the mist seeped away and the sky darkened once more. Only the patch of diamond sand marked the spot where a light god had died. Majelin climbed to his feet and staggered towards the closest Channel, his shaking legs barely strong enough to carry him. Torvaran caught him within a few strides, smashed him down and kicked him in the head.
Majelin had woken chained in this cavern, and, shortly thereafter, Torvaran had begun his torture. First, he had amputated Majelin’s wings, slowly. A few cuts a day, from Torvaran’s duron dagger, had sliced through flesh and sinew, then bone. First one, then the other, his wings had been stripped from him while he writhed and screamed. The gore had crusted on his back, layer upon layer as each day fresh blood had flowed. His wings had been displayed on the ground in front of him. Torvaran had ordered torches lighted to ensure the archangel could see his severed wings, and then had ordered the demons to beat him every time he closed his eyes. Eventually, the wings had rotted away. The bones still littered the floor, grey and crushed now.
Over the past five hundred years, the archangel had suffered so many forms of abuse that he could not remember them all, and perhaps that was a mercy. At times, the pain became so intense that he passed out, only to wake still racked by agony. Dark gods hated angels, especially archangels, and longed to turn them to the darkness, but rarely succeeded. Even when he was not being tormented, being chained to a wall was its own torture, as was the hunger and thirst he suffered. Such things could not kill him, and, as far as he knew, he would hang on this rock face until the light within him weakened and the darkness claimed his soul.
Several centuries ago, another dark god had joined in Majelin’s torture, and two others, one a female, had occasionally tormented him. The archangel had become inured to it, and found ways to cast his mind into another place to escape it, yet the minions of the darkness had never tired of it. Time was hard to judge in the darkness, but Majelin had clung to the light.
Now, something had changed. No one had tortured him for some time, and he wondered why. He shifted and eased his wrists in the shackles, restoring circulation to his hands, as he did regularly. While he might be freed if his hands rotted off, all that would do was enable him to lie down in the leg irons. There was no escape. He had accepted that several centuries ago. The dark realm’s corruption sullied him in every way, and he hated his stench and filth, even if none of it was his. Demons loved to use dirt to degrade.
A while ago, a deep chime had shivered the ground, and the demons that had been amusing themselves at his expense at the time had rushed out. Since then, there had been an unusual amount of demon activity in the corridor outside his cavern. The chime told him that someone had closed the dark realm’s world gate. Since Torvaran had forced the gate to remain open, only he, or another dark god, could have closed it. That made no sense. Even if Torvaran had become annoyed at the other dark gods in his domain, and ousted them, he would not close the gate. The mystery ate at Majelin, adding to his misery.
Rosy light brightened the cavern as five fire demons entered it, and a dozen earth demons followed, some using the entrance, others rising from the floor. They gathered around Majelin, sniggering, and two of the fire demons raked him with burning eyes, blistered his skin and made him grit his teeth. He would not give them the satisfaction of making him cry out, and he would fight them to the bitter end. An earth demon stepped closer and scraped its fist down Majelin’s cheek, the sharp stones slicing his skin.
“Time for you to be of more use, angel,” it grated. “The ones who let you live for their sport are all cast down into the Land of the Dead, so you belong to us now.” It gave a gritty guffaw, revealing stone teeth in a vile grin.
“Who cast them down?” Majelin asked, curious despite himself.
“A dark god, of course. Did you think one of your pathetic lords of light could prevail against the darkness?”
“Why did he close the world gate?”
The demon’s expression blackened, and the rest muttered. Evidently the gate’s closure was a sore point, and he wondered why, but knew he would get no answers. Majelin drew himself up, calling upon the white fire at his core for strength, and summoned the Sword of Vengeance. The fiery weapon appeared in his hand, and he swung it at the closest demon. Even hampered by the chains, he could do considerable damage, but the fire demons’ burning eyes would defeat him in the end. The earth demon jumped back, part of its arm lopped off, and growled a foul curse. The rest closed in, eager to spill an archangel’s blood, as they had longed to do for five centuries.
Majelin slashed at another earth demon that struck him from the side, slicing off a chunk. The chains limited his reach, and the demons knew they could strike him with relative impunity. They toyed with him, enjoying his suffering and hopeless defiance, and many more crowded into the chamber to partake in his torture and eventual demise. Fire demons raked him with burning glares, inflicting blistered lines across his chest, arms and face.
A blow on the side of his head dazed him, and he slumped, losing his grip on the sword. He was vaguely aware of the demons ripping the manacles from the wall, then one scooped him up and carried him out. A blur of dark tunnels passed as he struggled to clear his mind of the red haze that clouded it. The demon bore him through a door whose frame was decorated with runic symbols and dumped him on a stone slab at the centre of a fair-sized chamber.
The demons fastened his manacles to the slab’s corners, spread-eagling him upon it. The angel raised his head as his senses sharpened and surveyed his new prison, noting the lines of runes on the walls. Four torches burnt in sconces in the corners, and the place stank of rot and death. He sensed a powerful and ancient magic at work within the chamber, the sort that only a god could have cast. Whatever the demons planned for him, they evidently did not intend to kill him yet, and he contemplated that with a mixture of relief that he still had a vestige of hope and dread at what horrors might lie ahead.
The Demon Lord roused softly from the deep arms of sleep, as if swept onto a wakeful shore by gentle waves. He snuggled closer to his wife and inhaled her hair’s sweet fragrance. She squirmed and turned to him, and he opened his eyes. Mirra met his gaze and smiled. He returned it, then closed his eyes again.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said.
“Mmmm. Why?”
“It is time to get up.”
“Why?”
“We have things to do.”
“What?”
She giggled. “Are you not going to visit Kayos today?”
“Not now.”
“You cannot lie abed all day.”
“Yes, I can.”
She sighed. “You are like a grumpy bear in the morning.”
“Then do not nag me.”
“I am not!”
“Yes, you are.”
“Sleep then. I will make breakfast.” She tried to rise, but he held her tighter.
“No. Stay.”
“I am not lying abed all day.”
“Why not?”
“I will be bored. I have things to do, even if you do not.”
“You will not be bored.” He opened his eyes again and smiled.
She giggled. “What do you have in mind?”
“Something interesting.”
She slipped her arms around his neck. “Do tell, My Lord.”
“I would rather show you.”
Mirra’s smile widened as he drew her closer, then a shriek of girlish laughter shattered the peace, and he winced. His eyes flicked to the door through which the sounds filtered as a thud and another shriek followed.
“What is Ethra doing here?” he enquired.
She shrugged. “She is probably talking to Mithran and Grem.”
“What are they doing here?”
“You said we were going to visit Kayos and Sherinias today.”
“I did not mean at the crack of dawn.”
“It is far past dawn.”
He grunted. “It feels like dawn to me. If they do not be quiet, I will make the sun go down again.”
She giggled. “Ooh, how very godly of you, My Lord.”
“Do not be cheeky.”
“Or what?”
“I…” Bane winced again as more shrieks came from the kitchen. He raised his head. “Ethra!”
Murmuring followed, then scraping sounds and more giggles. He met Mirra’s sparkling eyes.
“I do not think they can hear you,” she said.
“Yet I can hear them. How is that possible?”
“Probably because they are making so much noise.”
“And they should know better.”
An ear-splitting shriek was followed by gales of giggles and softer male chuckles.
“What are they doing?” Bane asked.
She shook her head. “I have no idea, but it sounds like fun.”
“I had other fun in mind, and they are ruining it.”
“I do not think that is their intention.”
He groaned as more shrieks and giggles came from the kitchen. He scowled in that direction. “Ethra! Be quiet!”
“Do not spoil their fun,” Mirra chided.
“They are spoiling mine.”
A crash made him start and glare at the wall, annoyed.
Mirra murmured, “Bane… do not.”
“Why not?”
“It is rude.”
“They are being rude,” he said. “Why can they not go and make that ruckus elsewhere?”
“They are waiting for you to get up.”
“Then they should do it quietly.”
“If you silence them, they will be in here in a flash.”
“No, they will not.”
She snorted. “Do not be such a spoilsport.”
“And they are not?”
She clasped his face and kissed him. “Grouchy.”
“Irritated.”
“Grumpy.”
“Annoyed.”
Thuds and scrapes came through the wall, along with shrieks and chuckles. Bane raised his head again, and silence fell.
Mirra grinned and shook her head. “Peevish!”
The door handle rattled, and then a fist pounded on it. Bane groaned again and rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes.
Mithran’s worried voice came through the door. “Bane! Something’s happened to Ethra! She can’t speak!”
Bane massaged his temples, muttering, “I know. I know. I know.”
“You have only made it worse. Take it off,” Mirra said.
Mithran shouted, “Bane! You need to come out here. Ethra is…” His voice faded somewhat. “What? Him?” His voice rose to a bellow again. “Bane! Stop this at once!”
“Your father has spoken,” Mirra murmured.
Bane grunted, still rubbing his eyes, and sighed. In the kitchen, Ethra’s banter resumed, along with fresh gales of giggles.
Mithran thumped on the door. “Bane! Get up!”
Mirra giggled, poking him. He brushed her hand away, hiding his smile behind his other arm.
She murmured, “Come along, Lord Grumpalot, obey your father, like a good son.”
“I should have silenced him, too,” he growled.
She gave a mock gasp. “You would not dare!”
He removed his arm and opened his eyes. “It would not have stopped him banging on the door, unfortunately.”
Mirra rose, slipped her dress on and threw his trousers at him. “Get up.”
He sat up, raking back his hair. “You lot are getting far too bossy. Why must they come here to make noise?”
She splashed her face in the basin. “Because they cannot understand each other unless they are close to you, silly.”
“I will have to curse a stone or something.”
“Will that work?”
“I do not know. I have never tried it.” Bane rose, donned his trousers and went over to the basin to wash his face, then dried it and pulled on his shirt. Mirra tried to open the door and cast him a martyred look.
“Bane…”
Bane glanced at it, and, when she tried again, it opened, and she slipped out. He finished dressing, leaving off his cloak, and when he emerged, Grem, Mithran and Ethra sat around the kitchen table with steaming cups of tea in front of them, while Mirra stirred a pot of porridge on the stove. Ethra grinned at him, her eyes sparkling. Mithran raked him with a disapproving look.
“That was unnecessary, Bane.”
He sat opposite. “She was making too much noise.”
“Even so…”
Grem chuckled, and Ethra giggled.
Bane picked up the cup of tea Mirra set before him. “What are you all doing here so early, anyhow?”
“We’re going to the light realm, remember? And it’s almost noon,” Mithran said.
Bane glanced at the sun streaming in through the window. The world shivered, and moonlight replaced it. The faint chirring of crickets broke the stunned silence. Mithran’s mouth dropped open, Grem grunted, and Ethra giggled. Mirra clicked her tongue.
“You were saying?” Bane asked.
“That is not fair,” Mirra said.
Mithran’s mouth opened and closed a few times, then he swallowed. “Change it back.”
Grem yawned, striving to stifle it.
Mithran shook his head. “Son, if you don’t want to go, you just have to say so.”
“I do. I was just enjoying a lie-in.”
Grem snorted, and Mirra’s cheeks grew pink.
Mithran eyed her, then Bane. “All right, you’ve made your point.”
The world shivered again, and the sunlight returned, along with birdsong. Mithran slurped his tea.
“What were you doing that made so much noise, anyway?” Bane enquired.
Mithran and Grem swapped a conspiratorial look, and then Mithran reached under the table, drew out a folded strip of cloth and pulled it open with a snap. “We were trying to nail this to a beam, but it’s not wood, so we couldn’t.”
The cloth bore two words painted in red, black and pink, along with many spots and spills. It read: ‘Happy Birthday’.
Bane eyed it. “Whose birthday is it?”
“Yours!”
“No, it is not.”
“It is if I say so.”
Bane looked at Mirra, who leant against the stove, her arms folded, smiling at him. “You knew about this?”
“Yes. But you ruined it.”
“I did not know.”
“It was meant to be a surprise.”
Mithran said, “Ethra worked on this all of yesterday.”
Bane lowered his eyes to his teacup and put it down with a clink. He was at a loss for words, partly because his father had tried to arrange a little birthday party, and partly because his impatience with Ethra’s prattle had ruined their plans. Mirra came over and hugged him, kissing his cheek.
“It is all right. You did not know.”
Mithran folded the banner and put it on the table. “I thought it would be nice for you to have a birthday celebration, Son. You’ve never had one before, have you?”
“No. Not exactly.”
Mithran raised his eyebrows. “When would the Black Lord have ever celebrated your birthday?”
“It was not exactly a celebration.”
“Your sixteenth,” Mirra guessed.
Bane inclined his head. “It was still not a good idea to do it first thing in the morning, when I was still abed.”
Grem chortled again, and Ethra piped up, “Mirra said it was the only way to surprise you.”
“And it’s not the first thing in the morning,” Grem added.
“This still does not explain the amount of noise you were all making. It was hardly a surprise after that racket.”
“Well, we would have been quiet, if we could have put up the banner and blown up the balloons, but I fell off the chair and the pump has a leak, it seems.” Grem took a slim white tube from a box under the table and pulled on the
handle, then pushed it in, making a farting noise. Ethra shrieked with laughter. He chuckled. “Ethra finds it hilarious.”
The girl said, “It sounds like -”
“Yes,” Mithran interrupted. “We know what it sounds like.”
“That’s why it’s funny!”
Bane smiled and sipped his tea. “Sorry, Father. You all really thought I would enjoy a party, with a banner, and balloons?”
“Why wouldn’t you? Just because you’re a -”
“Because I am twenty-two years old.”
Mithran scowled at him. “Perhaps it wasn’t entirely for your benefit. I’ve never been able to celebrate my only son’s birthday.”
Bane lowered his eyes again, cursing himself.
Mithran slurped his tea. “And Ethra would have enjoyed it, too.”
“I think she did. Why did you not give her a party, then?”
“It’s not my birthday,” the girl said.
“And besides, I wanted you to have a party,” Mithran stated. “It’s high time you did some normal, human things. Mirra agreed. You’ve spent far too long rubbing shoulders with gods, and fighting them, and beasts and demons and all manner of foul creatures, like those… What do you call them?”
“Droges?”
“Yes! Now we have a few days to relax and do some fun things before we venture off into the unknown again.”
Bane sighed, thoroughly chastised. “I am sorry, Father.”
“I know it wasn’t anything special; just a banner and some balloons, and your human family. I’m sure your spirit father could have decked the light realm with gold and jewels and summoned angels to dance for you, but -”
“You resent Kayos?”
“No!” Mithran hesitated. “Well, perhaps a little. How can I compete with a Grey God?”
“You do not have to compete with him. You are my father. And he is your spirit father, too.”
“Yes, well, he’s not proud of me like he is of you. I can’t fight his enemies for him.”
Bane set his teacup down. “Father, I value you more for that very reason. Kayos is only interested in me because of what I am, and what I can do to help him and his kind, while you… You have no ulterior motive. You value me because I am your son.”
“I don’t value you, Son. I love you.”
When Angels Fall (Demon Lord) Page 2
