“We bound her with black magic, as you instructed, but it was not strong enough. She broke free. Still, we might have had them in the graveyard, were it not for this monk, and the old man. He is . . . resourceful.”
“He is nothing. Weak and useless, and gravely delusional.”
“He raised a powerful storm, my lord. And the spell that had concealed them is still active.”
“You have failed me.”
“I . . . I am sorry, my lord.”
“Let me show you something,” he said. He turned away from the pack of ravenous demons and entered the tower with Lord Brand behind him, descending through the hidden panel to the rooms below. This time he passed the chambers where men hung by hooks, going lower, then lower still. Moans and the shaking of chains followed him to a larger room where no torches guttered upon the dripping, moss-covered walls.
The things that gathered there did not like fire, but the Dark One did not mind the darkness; his eyes had also grown accustomed to it, and the moss that encased the walls glowed a faint green, giving off enough light for him to see.
A gigantic, circular stone structure dominated the room, leaving only a ten-foot-wide passageway around it. The structure was like the bulb at the end of a tendril of stone, growing up through the center of the Black Tower.
Archways every few feet allowed access to the passage around the stone bulb. From each of these archways creatures emerged, their pale skin luminous in the faint light.
They watched in silence. “What are they?” Lord Brand whispered finally. His face was drained, his mouth slack as he stared in astonishment. “Feeders? I have heard stories, but I have not seen . . .”
“They were men once,” the Dark One said. “The easiest to corrupt, through greed or fear or rage. Now they exist to gather what others possess and bring it here to me, where I keep it safe. This is a weapon, a very rare and dangerous one. And it will ensure our own victory in the coming war.”
The creatures crept forward on all fours, their backs twisted and hunched grotesquely upward, their bellies swollen like ticks. One of the creatures passed them, turning a blind, moon face upward, and he put his hand upon its hot, slippery scalp as it hissed with pleasure at his touch.
The creatures approached the bulb, placing their mouths upon a series of small tubes that projected from the stone opposite each archway. Faint, unearthly cries and sobs drifted through the cave, a thousand people in agony. Each of them sighed, quivering, as they released their burden and their swollen torsos withered away to bone and skin.
Lord Brand recoiled as the shrunken, wraith-like husks returned through the archways, making way for more creatures to come forward. They watched in silence as the cycle was repeated and more of them appeared, always more, regurgitating the contents of their bellies into the stone gourd, the cries of the damned drifting through the dark.
“They are loyal servants, and they do not fail me,” the Dark One said. “Do you understand?”
Lord Brand nodded. “I do, my lord.”
“Good.” The Dark One’s rage was boiling now, and he could not contain it for much longer. The power churned within him, begging to be released. He gritted his teeth as they returned to the surface and he thought of all who had wronged him over the years. They must pay for their sins. For a brief, terrifying moment he imagined his own failure, and a slow death followed by oblivion, his family name and crest once again buried in the bowels of history while Deckard Cain and his legacy lived on.
There were more demons in the surf. The waves moved like oil against the rocky shore as the Dark One turned to Lord Brand. His anger exploded with a white-hot flash as he raised his hands and spoke words of power from the ancient Vizjerei book of spells, summoning the power of Bartuc himself: the Warlord of Blood, master of demonic magic, who had harnessed the power of the Burning Hells to do his bidding.
A bolt of pure energy hit the tall, thin birdman in the chest, opening a smoking, dripping hole in his flesh and throwing him backward to the ground, where he writhed in pain, screaming, as the Dark One strode forward, the power building once again, a delicious wave of euphoria washing over him as he prepared to release it and shatter every bone in the man’s body. The demonic specters cavorting about the hissing surf screeched in ecstasy, ready to bathe in the gore, their grotesque bodies pulsating with excitement at the carnage.
“Wait!” The groaning man on the ground held up a hand, the other hand clutching at the wound in his chest. Blood poured over his fingers and onto the sand. “Please. All is . . . not lost!”
The Dark One stopped, holding in the energy like a ball of hot lava in his belly. “Speak quickly,” he said, through gritted teeth, his mouth twisted into a grimace of pain and pleasure. He leaned down, pulling the birdman’s hands aside and sticking a finger into the wound. “You have only moments to live.”
“The old man and the girl are headed for Kurast!” the man screamed. The Dark One removed his finger, and the birdman coughed up a spray of blood. “I am sure of it. We—we can find them again.”
“That may be so,” the Dark One said. “We may indeed be able to find them again, after all. But I’m afraid you won’t be part of the search.”
He stood up again, closed his eyes, and released the full fury of his power. Blue fire crackled from his fingertips and laced down toward the birdman, enveloping him. He arched upward, screaming soundlessly as his skin started to bubble and his hair crackled and burst into flame.
The Dark One turned away as the smell of burning flesh wafted across the desolate beach. The demons converged upon the smoldering form, howling with delight, tearing blackened skin from the birdman’s limbs with their hands and teeth.
Lord Brand. He shook his head. Such a pretentious name for such a useless creature. Birdman was much better. He would return to the Burning Hells to face his master’s wrath.
There were others, the Dark One thought, many others who would do his work for him. He thought of the road to Kurast, long, empty, and winding, a very dangerous place. It was not such a wide swath of land to search, and not so far away. Anything could happen there, and a traveling party could be detained and brought to him. He smiled, a sense of calm falling over him as he considered the possibilities. He would have the girl very soon. Perhaps a different approach was needed, he thought, a subtler one of lies and deceit, a manipulation that would use his servants to bring those he was seeking right to his front door. The Lord of Lies would approve; it was time for another meeting to discuss their plans. Time was growing short, and there was much still to do.
The old man would do his lord’s bidding, whether he liked it or not. Then the fool would die quite painfully, as his ancestor should have many years ago, and anyone else who stood in the way would die too.
The End of Days was almost upon them all.
17
The Road to Kurast
Mikulov stood on an outcropping of rock, looking out over the landscape that spread below him in the early morning light. The road ran through the valley, and as it grew smaller in the distance, the trees withered, the land growing dull and lifeless before the city of Kurast.
City of the damned. They were less than two days’ travel away, and what they would find in Kurast and beyond would change his life’s path: Mikulov felt certain of that. It had been foretold in the prophecies written many centuries ago, and in his own dreams. He thought of his masters at the monastery, and a pang of sadness touched him; he could never return again. But this was his destiny, and he intended to follow it to the end.
Mikulov brought his hands up and over his head, stretched, standing up on the tips of his toes, and bowed his head. He held this pose for five full minutes, his face serene, his body absolutely still. Anyone watching him might have thought him a statue: they would not have guessed at his inner battle against the impatience that urged him forward. But he knew the importance of peace. It was better to remain calm before leaping to action, even when time was short.