When Angels Fall (Demon Lord)

by Southwell, T C

  Bane nodded. “And I love you, Father. Far more than I love Kayos.”

  Mithran blinked, then harrumphed and slurped his tea again. “Yes, well, that’s why I wanted to give you a little party for your birthday; a normal, human party, with your human family.”

  “I am human too.”

  “Sometimes I think you forget just how human you are.”

  “But I have you to remind me.”

  “And you need reminding!”

  Bane bowed his head. Mirra opened a cupboard and took out a bowl, and he looked up. The bowls flew out and settled on the table, then the pot of porridge drifted over to hover above them. Dollops of porridge filled each bowl, and the pot floated back to the stove. Mirra smiled and placed her hands on her hips. A drawer opened and spoons glided out to land beside each bowl. He picked up a spoon, and the empty chair at the table drew out.

  “Sit, wife, and eat,” he said.

  Ethra spooned her porridge. “So aren’t we going to have a party, now?”

  Bane loaded his spoon and blew on the hot gruel. The banner rose, spread and affixed itself to a beam. Soft, multi-coloured balloons drifted from the box, inflated and bobbed about the kitchen. Ethra giggled, her eyes sparkling.

  Bane smiled at Mirra. “What, no presents?”

  She blushed. “I was going to give you one earlier, but…”

  Mithran drew a cloth-wrapped object from his pocket and held it out. “Happy birthday, lad.”

  Bane raised his eyebrows. “I was joking.”

  “A birthday must have presents, no matter how small. It’s hard to find a gift for a god, though.”

  Bane took the object and unwrapped it, revealing a tiny, gilt-framed portrait of a smiling raven-haired girl whose face was imprinted indelibly in his memory. He smiled. “Mother.”

  “Aye, lad. I thought you’d like a little memento.”

  “Thank you, Father. Who made it?”

  “I found an artist in the village.”

  “It is beautiful, and very thoughtful.”

  Mithran nodded. “I’m glad you like it.”

  Grem reached under the table, picked up a sizeable, paper-wrapped item and placed it in front of Bane. He tore the wrapping off a dark bottle whose label proclaimed it to be a vintage wine, not surprisingly. He nodded at the grey-eyed warrior. “Thank you. I shall savour it.”

  “I’m sure it’s not as good as ambrosia.”

  “You all need to stop trying to compete with gods.”

  Ethra held out a cloth-wrapped object with a flourish, and Bane took it, curious. When he stripped away the silk, he found a gilt timepiece, similar to ones he had seen people in this domain wearing on their wrists. He shot her a surprised look. “Where did you get this?”

  Mithran frowned at her. “Did you steal it?”

  “No! I earned it!”

  “How?”

  “Leave it, Father,” Bane said.

  “If she stole it…”

  “She says she did not.” He smiled at the girl. “Thank you.” He peered at the device’s tiny face. “I shall have to learn how to read it.”

  The child jumped up and came around the table. “The man showed me. The hands point to numbers, and those tell the time. See, it says half past eleven.” She leant closer. “But it’s stopped. That little hand is supposed to be moving.” She took it and tapped it. “There, it’s working again.” She handed it back, but the little hand stopped ticking. She frowned.

  Bane said, “I do not think it is the timepiece that is at fault. I think it is me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Apparently I have a strange effect on mechanical devices.” He placed the timepiece on the table, and it started working again. “See? There is nothing wrong with it. It is lovely, Ethra. I tell you what, you hold onto it, and when I need to know the time, I shall ask you.”

  The girl looked disappointed, but took the timepiece and returned to her place. Bane spooned his porridge again, which was growing cold. It warmed when he concentrated on it, as did everyone else’s.

  “I’d still like to know where she got that,” Mithran muttered.

  “A man gave it to me,” Ethra said.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “He said if I answered some questions, he’d give me the shiny watch in the shop. I was looking at it, you see. So I did, and he bought it for me.”

  “What questions did he ask you?”

  “Mostly about Bane; where he came from, what he is. Stuff like that.”

  “And you told him?” Mithran sounded incredulous.

  “Sure, why not? It’s not a secret... Is it?” She cast Bane an uncertain look.

  He shook his head. “It is all right.”

  Mithran said, “They might be trying to find out how to kill you, and now they know where you are.”

  “They already did, if a man was asking about me. He was probably one of those people who spread the news.”

  “They’re called ‘journalists’, I’ve heard,” Grem said.

  “What did you tell him?” Mithran asked Ethra.

  “The truth.”

  “Which is?”

  She snorted. “You know what it is.”

  “It is all right, Father,” Bane said. “We will only be here for a few more days, and besides, I have been trying to tell them what I am since I came here. They did not believe it, and they will not believe Ethra, either. She is right. It is not a secret.”

  A short silence fell, then Mirra rose, went to a cupboard and took out a plate that held a cake with a creamy topping and twenty-two little pink candles stuck in it. She removed his empty porridge bowl and placed the cake in front of Bane with a smile. “Happy birthday.”

  He eyed it. “Still trying to fatten me up?”

  She snorted and smacked his shoulder playfully. He rose, kissed and hugged her. When he turned back to the table, Mithran was lighting the candles.

  “Now you have to blow them out,” he explained.

  The Demon Lord flicked his fingers, and the candles went out.

  Mithran clicked his tongue. “I said blow, not command.” He lighted the candles again.

  Bane sat down and blew out the candles, and Mirra dished out the cake as he sliced it up.

  Chapter Two

  Entreaty

  Sarmalin perched on the gilded chair in Ezmaral’s bright sunroom, her wings raised to prevent the tips brushing the floor. A surfeit of delicate crystal and gold bric-a-brac cluttered the ornate alabaster shelves behind the elder archangel, presumably gathered during his travels. Most were probably tokens of appreciation from gods and people he had helped during his long lifetime; more than seven thousand years of memorabilia to remind him of his adventures. Soft sunlight poured through the translucent crystal roof to bathe Ezmaral where he reclined on a delicate carved quartz chair, making his snowy wings and hair glow. Two green suns shone in a cloudless sky today, turning everything a soft shade of aquamarine.

  Ezmaral leant forward, lifted a crystal pitcher in an unhurried manner and poured water into the silver bowl on the table. Sarmalin fidgeted a little, eager for news of her husband. After centuries of receiving the same dismal bulletin each week, now there was hope that something had changed, perhaps for the better.

  Ezmaral set the pitcher down with a soft clink and frowned into the bowl, his expression becoming grim. “You should prepare yourself, Sarmalin.”

  Her heart fluttered. “Why? For what? What has happened?”

  “He is gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I know not, I am afraid.”

  “Please, find him.”

  Ezmaral swirled the water with his fingertips and peered into it again. “He is in… a chamber. I cannot see it well. I think it is warded. He lies upon an altar… There are many guardian runes. He will not live much longer, I fear.”

  “No!” She jumped up, overturning her chair with a clatter. “I will find a way to save him!”

  “You canno
t. The tar’merin has closed the world gate, and even if, by some miracle, you found a way down there and the demons somehow neglected to notice you, Majelin is bound with duron.”

  Sarmalin paced around. “There must be a way. There is always a way! Before, it was indeed hopeless, but now there is the tar’merin. Do you think he will help if I plead with him?”

  “I cannot say. Tar’merin are hard to predict. We do not even know for certain that he is one.”

  “You think Kayos is enslaved?”

  Ezmaral tilted his head. “Unlikely, but even so, it is hopeless. I am sorry.”

  “Perhaps not,” she said, unwilling to admit defeat.

  “My dear, I understand your anguish -”

  “No, you do not! Your wife is probably relaxing at the cloud pools right now. Dark gods have tortured my husband for five centuries, and now he must endure it from demons?” She drew herself up, determination bolstering her courage. “I shall speak to the tar’merin.”

  “He will not help you, I fear.”

  “He helps light gods, or at least, tar’merin do. If he is one, perhaps he will, and if Kayos is with him, he must be tar’merin.”

  “That is not the reason I doubt it, Sarmalin. You are not… You are only an angel. He will be insulted that you do not know his title, and he owes you no favour.” Ezmaral sighed, his expression sad, and gestured to the chair. “Please, sit.”

  She righted it and sat down again. “Do you know his name and title?”

  “I am afraid the rumours have not revealed it.”

  “Can you scry him for me?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “How will that help?”

  “I wish to know him. Perhaps, if I plead with him… Perhaps Kayos will ask him to help.”

  “You are grasping at straws, and if I scry him, he will know it. It may offend him.”

  She leant forward. “Perhaps he owes another angel a favour.”

  “I still do not see how that helps you.”

  “He may need more favours, in the future. If he fights for the light, that is likely. I could offer my service, and Majelin’s.”

  Ezmaral tapped on the edge of the bowl with a soft ting, ting, ting. “That is a possibility, but how will knowing him help you in that regard?”

  “We can glean much from a god’s demeanour, his companions, and appearance.”

  “That does not necessarily apply to tar’merin.”

  “Please.”

  The elder archangel sighed, leant over the bowl again and swirled the water, gazing into it. “He is in a strange place… modern. Many people surround him. Some are his friends, one is his father, and one… his wife. He is mortal, a mere youth…” Ezmaral recoiled, blinking.

  “What is it?”

  “He blocked me, or one of the light gods did.” He rubbed his forehead. “It stings a little.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “Not much. There is an angel near him. Perhaps the owner of a favour, but he could also just be watching.”

  “Is the dark god tar’merin?”

  “I would say so, yes.”

  “Then I will speak to him, after I speak to this spying angel. Do you know where I will find him?”

  “He is aboard a silver vessel in the light realm of that domain.”

  She rose. “Thank you, Ezmaral.”

  “Good luck,” the elder angel called as she made for the door.

  Outside, Sarmalin stepped into a Channel and walked along it, searching for one that gave access to the domain where Majelin was imprisoned. She passed through a realm gate’s wards with a shiver and cast about again, wandering the Channels. The vessel was half hidden in a bank of clouds, revealed by its soft gleam. She entered it and roamed pale corridors, peering into rooms where humans rested, ate or attended peculiar glowing instruments. The tar’merin and his companions were in what appeared to be a dining hall with light grey walls and moulded green furniture.

  The young dark god reclined upon a pale cloud couch, tiny blue flames edging his contact with it. He bore the distinctive stamp of the darkness in his perfect features and pale skin, and glossy jet hair fell to his shoulders from a deep widow’s peak. Flame-like gold patterns decorated the front of his black shirt and eternity symbols adorned its collar, and a long cloak lined with scarlet satin draped the couch, almost brushing the floor.

  The prospect of revealing herself was daunting, despite the presence of the silver-haired Grey God, Kayos. A young blond light god with a jovial face and twinkling brown eyes sat on another couch, and an even younger goddess with midnight hair and azure eyes reclined on her own beside his. They sipped from golden goblets, engrossed in a murmured discussion. Sarmalin still needed his title, however, and set off in search of the spying angel. Two circuits around the group and one over it finally found him sitting with his back against the Channel wall, watching the gods. He stood up and bowed when she approached.

  “Archangel Sarmalin.”

  His name popped into her mind. “Tryne. Greetings.”

  His eyes darted to the god group, then back to her. “What do you wish?”

  “I require the tar’merin’s aid.”

  “Then you should ask him.”

  “Does he easily grant favours?”

  He shook his head. “Not in my experience. He bargains hard, like all gods.”

  “How many does he owe you?”

  “Three more, by my calculation, but he will doubtless deny some.”

  “Will you seed one to me?”

  Tryne shifted, avoiding her eyes. “Why would I do that?”

  “My husband is imprisoned in this domain’s underworld, the victim of unspeakable torture. I fear they will slay him soon. He is Majelin, who tried to save Lord Pretarin.”

  “I have heard of him.”

  “And you did not ask the tar’merin to free him, as one of your favours?”

  “I heard that he was dead.”

  “Will you help me?”

  Tryne gazed at the tar’merin. “My favours are precious, and hard earned.”

  “I know. I will owe you one, in replacement. Surely there is something I can do?”

  “If an angel could achieve them, I would not require the aid of a tar’merin.”

  “Do you not wish to save an archangel?” she asked. “If you do this, my husband and I will do whatever we can. You have my word.”

  “He may agree, without using a favour.”

  “You just said -”

  “I think he dislikes owing favours.”

  She nodded. “They usually do. All right, I will plead with him, but if he refuses, will you help?”

  Tryne still looked reluctant. “You and your husband will owe me three favours, in that case.”

  “Very well.” Sarmalin was disappointed, but not altogether surprised. Doubtless Tryne wished to help, but giving away his favours was difficult, even so. There was hope that she could gain Majelin’s freedom without squandering a favour. “Do you know his name and title?”

  “He is Bane, the Demon Lord. The young light god is Lord Drevarin, and the child goddess is Lady Sherinias, ruler of this domain. I assume you know who the Grey God is.”

  “I do. Thank you.”

  Sarmalin gazed at the tar’merin, wondering how he would react to her plea and dreading that he would deny it. Light gods seldom granted favours without owing them, and of tar’merin she knew almost nothing, but she guessed that he would be even less inclined to do so. Majelin’s plight drove her on. His time was running out while she dithered. She tore open the Channel wall and stepped out.

  The gods looked up, and the tar’merin’s slanted eyebrows rose as his fire-blue eyes swept over her. Kayos’ eyes narrowed, Drevarin cocked his head and Sherinias smiled. Sarmalin bowed to Bane and clasped her hands, then straightened. She flinched from his piercing gaze and lowered her eyes to his boots.

  “Demon Lord,” she said, “I am Sarmalin.”

  He glanced at Kayos, then back at her. “Sp
eak.”

  “I greet Lord Kayos, First of the Seven, Lord Drevarin and Lady Sherinias.”

  Sarmalin bowed to each of them, as protocol demanded, then faced the tar’merin once more. “I have come to plead for the life of my husband, imprisoned these past five hundred years in this domain’s underworld. He is the archangel Majelin, and I beg you to save him, Lord. He suffers unspeakable torture at the hands of demons. They will slay him soon, I fear.”

  “I have no interest in rescuing angels,” Bane said. “I have enough problems as it is.”

  “If you do not, Lord, he will -”

  “Die. Yes, doubtless he will, as do many others all over the accursed God Realm every day, and I am not here to save everyone. It is bad enough that I must deal with moronic humans and droves of bloody demons, now you want me to risk my life to save a damned angel? One who was stupid enough to be captured, too. How did that happen?”

  “He tried to save Lord Pretarin on the day Torvaran destroyed him.”

  Sherinias raised a hand to her mouth, and Kayos closed his eyes, his mien sorrowful.

  Bane scowled. “Of course; it had to be that. No chance he was just a random angel who fell into a trap or something. No, he has to be the archangel who tried to save a light god; her flesh father!” Bane stabbed a finger at Sherinias, who gazed at him with wide eyes.

  Sarmalin shook her head, puzzled and afraid. “Why does it anger you, Lord?”

  “Because I destroyed Torvaran; I remember that day and your husband.”

  She fell to her knees. “Blessed be your name, Demon Lord -”

  “Get up!” He dismissed his cup and rose to his feet to loom over her. “Do not spout that drivel to me! I do not want my name blessed or my boots licked or my bloody feet kissed!”

  Kayos murmured, “Bane…”

  “You stay out of it!”

  Sarmalin was shocked, but the Grey God seemed unperturbed. “I-I did not mean to anger you, Lord,” she almost whispered.

  “And yet, you have. Not you, so much as your request.” Bane walked away. “No, I will not save him. Let him perish.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Please, I beg you, Lord!”

  Bane swung around. “Stop begging! Stand up straight when you address me and look me in the eye.”