Emperor of Shadows

by Mike Truk

  A wet slurping sound accompanied the retraction of my hand from the demon’s skull, and I rose to my full height. Fuck, I had to be at least three yards tall now, maybe more. I’d never felt so alive, so in the moment; my senses were painfully acute, my body screamed for action.

  The other three demons hesitated, glanced at each other, and then came for me all at once.

  It was glorious.

  A spear of black fire burned through my abdomen, only to heal instantaneously. The insectile guy behind me slammed what felt like revolving blades into my back which churned my flesh into an agonized slurry - which healed back as fast as the damage could be dealt.

  I focused on the big guy, the one who had tossed the carriage. Crimson-skinned, his massive body dwarfing his recurved legs, his horns gleaming like damp obsidian, his claws wicked sharp, he came barreling into me with a blast from his wings.

  I reached up, caught each of his hands in my own, so our fingers interlaced and our arms locked.

  His momentum drove me back, my heels carving trenches through the ruined road, the impact driving me back a good six or seven yards - and then I caught my balance.

  The demon’s face was inches from my own, his upper lip writhing back from his fangs. I saw hatred in those coal-black eyes, a desire to conquer that matched my own - and a burgeoning hint of confusion.

  Fear.

  Because as I began to lean forward, he had no choice but to bend back.

  Something, I’d wager, he’d never had to do in his whole demonic unlife.

  The feminine demon hurled another bolt of black flame at me, a second, a third. Each carved huge gouts of flesh from my body, but they might as well have happened to another; my body healed the damage back almost before it could be dealt, so the flares of pain were annoyances and little more.

  The insectile demon leaped atop my shoulders, and there hunched and bit down into the side of my neck, his huge pincers cutting through tendon and sinew as he tried to cut off my head.

  I screamed, more in annoyance than pain, and for a second considered tearing a hand free to batter the demon away. But no. As much as he burrowed and cut, my neck healed back just as fast. It was as if he were seeking to empty the ocean with a bucket.

  The demon before me snarled, great nostrils flaring, then roared forth a deluge of liquid flame, more like lantern oil that had caught fire than anything else.

  It washed over me, burned away my clothing, my hair, my skin; then the pain began to fade, and when he ceased his assault, the insectile demon was gone, but I stood undamaged before him.

  “How?” he snarled.

  “King troll, you son of a bitch,” I growled right back, and then squeezed my hands shut, shattering his palms, causing his digits to splay in random angles, flesh jellying out from between my fingers.

  “Look!” shouted Eddwick, pointing vigorously to catch my attention. “The carriage.”

  Probably the only thing that would have distracted me. I jerked my vision up, saw one of the wrecked coach doors shudder then fall away, a boot emerging as Tamara kicked her way free.

  Hope surged within my breast, and was rewarded when I saw her leg retract, then all of her climb out, turn, and help Seraphina climb free in turn.

  Alive.

  Alive, and uninjured.

  Tamara must have been healing all this time.

  Cerys?

  A fist crashed into the side of my face with enough force to warp iron. My head snapped to the side, teeth and blood filling my mouth, then everything healed back.

  I turned to snarl at the feminine demon, only to see Pony’s sledgehammer descend like a white-burning meteor into the back of her head and drive her down to one knee.

  Snarling, I yanked the crimson-skinned demon up from his crouch and right into a head butt. I felt bone in his brow give, my own cracking as well, but it healed instantly.

  Again I yanked him up, and again I head-butted him. He roared, but there was desperation in the sound, and his face was becoming mangled.

  I head-butted him a third time, a fourth. He was growing limp in my grasp, I allowed him to fall to the ground, kicked him under the chin so that he fell to the road, and then set to stomping his head in with as much force as I could muster.

  As it turned out, I could muster a lot.

  I was screaming, I realized - releasing my hatred, my frustration, all the anger I’d been harboring, the fear I’d been feeling for my friends.

  My boot was a piston. I descended over and over again, crashing into the demon’s head, shattering his horns, caving in his lower jaw, flattening his cheekbones, pulping his eyes.

  A hand grasped my shoulder, turning me around.

  I raised my fist, ready to take off whoever’s head it was, and then froze at the sight of Pony.

  When had he grown shorter than me?

  He stared up at me with a calm awareness that stilled my anger. No fear. No flinching. Ready to take the blow if it came.

  But intent on pulling me free of my madness.

  I stumbled back, body still crying out for more, for punishment, to mete out unbridled violence. The crimson demon was a moaning wreck on the driveway.

  The insectile one was picking itself up off the road, charred near to death.

  The toad demon lay still.

  Pony had put down the feminine one, who lay cradling her broken head and hissing to herself.

  Leaving Eddwick.

  “Well, shit,” he said, taking a step back.

  I took a step forward.

  “Kellik?” Tamara had managed to lower Seraphina to the ground, and now dropped down beside her. To my eternal relief, I saw Cerys pulling herself free of the carriage behind them.

  The amount of blood soaked into their clothing indicated how close they’d come to entering the Ashen Gardens.

  “Kellik?” There was fear, wonder, and hesitancy in Tamara’s voice. “Is that…you?”

  But she couldn’t finish her question. Her expression was one of extreme effort, but for some reason she slowly sagged and dropped to one knee.

  A moment later Seraphina did the same.

  Anger surged within me. What kind of question was that? Who else would I be? But then I stared down at my palms. Black as coal, talons several inches long, all of it drenched in ichor and blood.

  Then down at my body. I was all lean muscle, a perfect human form, muscled and cut in a manner no normal mortal could reach. Three or more yards tall, uninjured, bursting with vigor and vitality.

  But it was my face she was staring at.

  Hesitant, I reached up to touch at my features. Found ridges of horn, harsh angularities, something alien to my fingertips.

  A crowd of servants and guards had gathered to watch the fight from a safe distance, and now they, too, slowly fell to their knees, many of them pressing their brows to the cobblestones. The effect rippled outward until everyone but Eddwick was bowing before me.

  Seraphina, sweat dripping off her brow, dragged forth an iron cube from under her tunic. I’d noticed the thong before, but never glimpsed what hung at its end. The cube was unadorned, roughly cast, but had the same fell presence as the Hanged God’s icon in the cathedral.

  The same sense of weight and danger.

  “The Hanged God sees you,” she said, voice shaking from where she knelt, holding the cube up, allowing her gaze to fall upon the defeated enemies and Eddwick. “And steps between you and your demons. Feel the weight of his regard. And if in this moment you wish freedom from your captors, step free of your bondage and resume control of your fate.”

  An invisible wave of force billowed out from the cube, its passage distorting light, and washed out over everyone present.

  Eddwick staggered back as if dealt a blow, and then his face began to melt. No - I quickly realized that two visages were superimposed over each other, his own and that of a second, a skull-like face with white lights burning in its sockets.

  Eddwick opened his mouth to scream, as did the ghostly
face over his own, and then with a convulsive jerk, he threw himself aside, crashing down onto the cobbles to leave a wispy outline where he’d been.

  For a moment it stood there, the ghost of a demon, white boned and hunched, a long tail extending out behind it, claws flexing in fury.

  The other demons around us, however, remained as they were, not separating, but struggling, convulsing where they lay.

  And a realization hit me like Pony’s palm to the back of my head: they weren’t separating, sure, but for that moment, even if the hosts wished to keep their demon’s powers, they were divided.

  A window of opportunity in which they could choose freedom if they desired.

  A moment in which they were without their demon’s powers.

  And therefore without their demons protection, as well.

  “All of you,” I snarled, raking my gaze over the four. “Obey my every command from here on out, following the letter and the spirit of my desires!”

  My king troll power slid into that gap, wormed its way into the host’s minds, and made them mine.

  “Do as my friends and I command,” I said, following up as they stared at me in dismay. “Obey their orders as you would my own!”

  I didn’t pause to admire my handiwork, but stalked over to Eddwick, placing my bare foot on his chest. A foot twice as large as my own had been, each toe tipped with a curved talon.

  Eddwick gaped, grasped at my ankle with his hands, and tried to throw me off. Failed.

  The demon, the ghost-like wraith, was screaming silently, thrashing in its attempts to get back into my old friend.

  But I could only see how he’d smiled when Yashara had been demolished - how he’d mocked me. How he’d orchestrated this plan.

  Part of my mind was screaming, trying to reason, but the bestial part of me - the furious, white-hot, violent juggernaut of untrammeled disaster - wanted revenge. Revenge for the pain I’d felt, for the losses I’d experienced, for the world that kept punishing me for trying to do the right thing.

  Eddwick didn’t say anything in his defense. He grasped at my ankle, mouth opening and closing, straining to talk, but the pressure on his chest was too great.

  Others were shouting at me, trying to get my attention.

  I could only stare down.

  A little more pressure and he’d burst like a grape.

  And that would be the end of another enemy.

  Eddwick’s face was darkening; with supreme effort, his whole body going rigid, he managed to make a strangled moan.

  I froze.

  I’d heard that sound only once before.

  When we were kids. He’d been ambushed by older children, a pack led by a bastard called Bloody Mikel or something. I’d caught wind of the attack, had sprinted through the docks to find them before it was too late.

  I’d run into the alley to see Eddwick pressed against the wall, arms pinned. Mikel was slowly driving a dagger into Eddwick’s chest, inch by slow inch, grinning like a madman and enjoying my best friend’s slow, agonizing death.

  Eddwick had opened his mouth then and given that mute expression to his pain and loss, that strangled sound that was the closest he’d ever come to vocalizing.

  I’d charged in like an enraged bull, had driven off the pack through sheer madness and hatred. I’d managed to get Eddwick to a healer, and we’d then spent the rest of that summer getting our revenge on Mikel and his pack, one member at a time.

  Eddwick’s face was nearly purple.

  The sound of his mute cry thundered in my ears. For a second I felt like I was Bloody Mikel, stabbing Eddwick to death in a dark and sordid alley.

  this time there was no best friend ready to hurl himself into the fray and save his life.

  With a cry, I jerked my foot back.

  Eddwick let out a shuddering gasp as he curled up onto his side.

  I cast a wild gaze around myself. Why the fuck was everyone kneeling? Even Cerys, who had dropped to the street, had fallen to bow before me. One by one, even Pony dropped down, until every single person, even my most loved companions, were pressing their brows into the muck of the street.

  All but the writhing demon, who seemed unwilling to depart, to abandon its host altogether.

  I stared at my taloned hands again, my alien black skin. The desire was still there. To conquer. To murder. To rejoice in being worshipped.

  I felt it even when I stared at Tamara’s bowed back, at Pony’s still and quiescent form.

  My pulse was pounding in my ears.

  Tamara was wrestling, trying to rise, white fire burning across her frame. She called out to me, but I couldn’t make out the intent behind her words.

  I wanted to flee, to escape myself, but something held me in place. An idea. A germ of a notion.

  I turned to stare at the demon. Its pale, skeletal frame was fading, and soon, I knew, it would be completely gone.

  “Can you hear me?” I demanded.

  The demon’s rage stilled as it turned its head toward me, its eyes twin pinpricks of blazing white light.

  “Do you desire a new host?”

  “No,” moaned Cerys. “No, Kellik - don’t take that power!”

  The demon floated closer; something about its body language expressed curiosity.

  “I’ll give you a new host,” I said, thoughts spinning, desperate hope blooming within my chest. “All you’ve got to do is follow me. Pony? Bring the medusa to the chamber.”

  Not allowing myself to hesitate, to second-guess myself, I ran toward the manor, breaking into a sprint that culminated in a fantastic leap. I soared up to a second-floor balcony, one over from the ruined coach; crashing down into the stone balustrade, I shattered my way through.

  I turned and saw the demon floating up after me, its form now transparent.

  I had to hurry.

  I had to get there before it faded away altogether.

  Smashing my way through the french doors, I crashed through the bedroom, shouldering my way through the door and into the hall. I paused to orient myself then tore off toward a special chamber. Turning the corner, I ignored the terrified yell of a guard who threw himself aside at the last moment, and pounded down to the gleaming door.

  I wrenched it open and strode inside. The room was empty but for a massive, iron-bound chest and a shape shrouded in black silk that stood in the room’s center.

  Pausing, hands on the chest’s lid, I glanced over my black shoulder.

  The pale demon floated into the study, little more than a wisp.

  “Here,” I growled, and flung the lid open, revealing the chunks of shattered stone. Rising, I stepped over to the shrouded figure, and pulled the black cloth away.

  Yashara’s mutilated statue.

  “She is yours,” I said, willing the demon to accept, to be able to accept. “She is still alive, within the stone. She’ll only die when she turns back to flesh. Which I’ll do the moment you heal her. Put her back together. Make her whole.”

  The demon floated toward her broken body. It swirled about her, then turned to regard me. Its mouth stretched into a rictus of a grin, then it sank into the stone like mist into the surface of a lake.

  Hairline cracks sealed over. Fissures closed.

  I bit my lower lip; then, unsure, I reached down into the chest and took up Yashara’s severed arm. Moving to her statue, I set the brutalized end against her shoulder.

  The stone flowed together, became whole.

  My roar of victory caused the windows to rattle. Feverishly I went back and forth from the chest, adding more and more pieces to her frame, slotting them into the gaps, aided by the demon’s ability to heal her, compensate for the mistakes, the flaws that were left.

  Finally, I took up Yashara’s snarling head. Holding it in both my massive hands, I traced the brutal curve of her cheek with one talon.

  “Strength,” I whispered to her, heart pounding. “Strength, my queen. Fight this fight. You can do this. You can win.”

  I stepped ov
er the statue. Lifting her head aloft, I saw tendrils of white mist reach up from the stump of her neck, questing blindly.

  I’d come too far to stop now.

  Carefully, I lowered her head to watch as her neck healed over, becoming perfectly smooth.

  Stepping back, I admired her. Her formidable form, her perilous beauty, her naked rage in all its healed glory.

  The demon had done it.

  The demon had restored her into a seamless whole.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, eyes burning, drinking in the sight of her.

  A half-orc warrior, almost seven feet tall with the physique of a demi-goddess, her black hair a full mane held back by a crown of iron spikes around her brow. Her human blood betrayed itself in her striking, powerfully beautiful features. Her skin was slate green, bare shoulders marked by the dark spots typical of orcs, clad in a partial black plate of cruel and exquisite design, thick iron chains wrapped around her forearms.

  She’d been frozen half-charge, scimitar raised for her first strike, tendons taut in her neck, muscles clearly defined down the length of her thigh.

  A visage to strike terror into any foe.

  Would it work?

  My ire, my overwhelming need to conquer, to dominate, ebbed away. I felt my body shrink, return to its normal size. Raising my hands, I saw the pale, strong fingers I’d always had, familiar and banal. Gone were the talons, the black skin, the massive strength.

  I looked back up to Yashara’s petrified form. I willed her to be in there, to be alive, to come back to me.

  A heavy knock sounded on the door, then it swung open. Pony marched inside, sledgehammer in one hand, looking warily at the figure that followed him.

  Her gaze was hooded, but still her eyes left searing trails in my vision as if each were a miniature sun. Mithasa, alien in her beauty, skin subtly scaled, lips dark and wide with twin fangs visible within her mouth. Her expression was sullen, but at the sight of Yashara restored, she froze, eyes flaring wide. I felt a wash of fire pass over me.

  Pony dropped his hammer and lurched forward, arms outstretched to Yashara, only to stop at the last moment in confusion to turn and stare at me. Cerys, Pogo, Tamara - everyone else crowded in behind.

  “Almost there,” I said to Pony. “Medusa. Bring Yashara back.”