Prince of Darkness

by Blake Arthur Peel

  “He says that they have practiced riding with some of the farmers outside the city walls,” she says, translating. “He claims that they will not be a burden.”

  I sigh and look over my shoulder at her. “What do you think?”

  She considers for a second before responding. “Honestly, I think that we will need all the help that we can get. If they can keep up, I think they should be allowed to come with us.”

  Grunting, I stand up and extend a hand to help Yari to his feet. “Good enough for me.” I pull each of them up and thank them for their aid, then turn to a nearby guard and ask him to bring us three more horses. He races off to do as I say.

  "It appears your entourage has just acquired three more guards," Roth muses, standing beside Elias and the others. "This is well. In the wake of the army, there's no telling what dangers you might face."

  "Unfortunately, there is no time to tarry." Elias turns to a guard and gives him a signal. The man steps over to the wall of the butcher's shop and pushes in one of the bricks, which presses inward like a button. Then, with the scraping sound of wood being dragged across stone, the ground on the side of the building begins to move. The cobblestones shift as the slab slides away, revealing a dark tunnel. It starts at street-level, a rift wide enough for two or three horses to ride down the ramp, then gradually descends until the path vanishes from sight.

  "May the Light protect you on your quest," Elias continues, his voice sounding oddly formal. "You carry with you the hope of Tarsynium. We anxiously await your return."

  The leaders all approach us, clasping our hands and wishing us luck in turn. When Elias reaches me, he does not hesitate to pull me into a paternal hug. I return it eagerly, embracing the man who has become something akin to a father to me. Then, when all of the goodbyes have been said, we take the reins of our horses and begin making our way down, striking up torches to help light our path.

  Zara and I move to go down together, our horses beside us as we stare down into the yawning shaft.

  "It's actually happening," Zara says softly, a slight tremor entering into her voice. "Today we say goodbye to the City of Mages; my city..."

  "Don't worry," I reply, reaching down with my unoccupied hand and holding hers. "We'll be back before you know it."

  Zara glances up at me, her brown eyes full of emotion. "Owyn, you saw my hand after setting off that bomb. The source crystal exploded – and this one is going to be much bigger. If we manage to pull this off..."

  "Don't think about that," I interject, giving her hand a tight squeeze. "The only thing you need to focus on is the fact that we are saving the world. That, and not falling of your horse." I give her a sly wink.

  Despite the sadness in her eyes, she smiles. "You know, I'm probably a better rider than you, now."

  "When we get out of this tunnel, you'll have to prove it," I reply.

  Together, we begin our descent into the abyss, with Yari and the others pulling up the rear behind us. In the flickering light of the torches, I can make out the moisture-slick walls of the stone tunnel, the sound of clopping hooves reverberating in the air around us. As we start on the long, winding path out of the city, I note the fact that crumbling stone is being pushed into the tunnel behind us, blocking the entrance and effectively sealing us inside.

  There's no turning back now, I think as I walk beside Zara through the dark. Hells, there's no turning back for any of us, now. We're all trapped in this world, and we'll either survive or die trying.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Prophetess

  Rats skitter in the darkness as the last of the Chosen gather together, convening for what will likely be the final time. Night has fallen, and it seems as if the entire city is holding its breath. Everything is quiet and still, waiting for what is to come.

  Even now, the R’Laar bear down upon us, I think as the masked figures enter through the branching tunnels, heads bowed somberly. The last days are finally upon us.

  I rise from my place on the slime-covered stones to regard the huddled group of figures, the light of a single flickering candle illuminating the underground chamber. They form a semi-circle around me, twelve men and women when there used to be so many more.

  “Why have you called this meeting, Patrinia?” Micah asks without introduction, using my given name and not my title. “There are those of us who would prefer to live out our final days in debauchery rather than slinking around these sewers.”

  Several of the others mutter darkly their assent.

  Pushing back my hood, I reveal my face and let my dark curls fall down around my shoulders. There’s no point in hiding my identity any longer – these people are my brothers and sisters, and they already know my name. “I called this meeting because there is still work to be done.” My voice carries strongly off the cold stone walls. “The Arc has fallen, true, but there are still powerful defenses standing between the Prince of Darkness and his enemies. We must act to ensure their victory.”

  “Their victory is already assured,” remarks Titus, a heavyset man with a hideous scar marring his face. “My sources tell me the Prince has brought hundreds of thousands of demons to bear against the city.”

  “Yes, they will probably win,” I concede, “but how much demonic blood will it take? Lord Asmodeus will not be kind when he learns that we idled away the battle while his troops fought and died for our salvation.”

  More muttering voices fill the chamber, only now they sound less certain.

  “Who are you to presume to command us?” Micah growls, voice muffled by his mask.

  I draw myself to my full height, squaring my shoulders and looking him in the eye. “I am Patrinia Kent, Sister of the Chosen and descendant of the High Magus Sophronia Kent of old. I am the last remaining mage in our brotherhood, and before he died, the Prophet named me as his successor.”

  Everyone gasps upon hearing the declaration.

  As proof, I pull out a document that is written in the Prophet’s own hand from the folds of my robes, handing it to the nearest Chosen for them to examine personally.

  “This... this is impossible,” Titus murmurs, snatching the document and holding it close to his face so that he can read it.

  “It is the truth,” I reply coolly, allowing each of them time to view the writing themselves. “Even in death, the Prophet does not want his children to be leaderless.”

  Finally, they all review the document and stand staring at me in the wavering candlelight. Then, one by one, they drop to their knees, kneeling before me as their new Prophetess.

  “What would you have us do?” Cynthia asks, her voice supplicating as she peers up at me.

  “I would have you serve,” I answer, motioning for them to get up off the ground.

  I begin to pace, clasping my hands behind my back as I begin to address them as their leader. “Our numbers have dwindled in the recent weeks, the power we once commanded a mere shadow of what it once was, but that does not mean that we are worthless. There is still much we can do to aid the Prince of Darkness in his conquest.”

  “You would have us sew chaos,” Titus says, the meaning behind my words dawning on him.

  “Precisely,” I respond, still pacing. “We can distract the defenders, drawing their focus inside the walls instead of outside. This way we can ensure that the battle ends swiftly, and that the Prince can end the conflict before too many of his troops are destroyed.”

  “How can we do this thing?” One of them asks. “We are so few in number.”

  “Our ability to blend in will be our greatest ally,” I respond. “We can start fires, poison wells, and undermine the defenses so that the demons can break through. It will not take much – their courage is fragile. Only a little pressure will cause it to break. And the Prince, upon hearing of what we do, will no doubt reward our efforts.”

  “Yes,” Micah hisses fervently, nodding his hooded head in agreement. “The Prophetess speaks truly.”

  Stopping before them, I reach to my be
lt and pull out a dagger. It is a simple thing, plain steel polished to a dull sheen. The edge, though, is extremely sharp, and the point almost needle-like, the metal long enough to punch through a chest and into the heart.

  “Swear, then, by your blood,” I command, holding out the dagger, “that you will work to undermine the defense of this city until your dying breath.”

  The nearest brother takes the blade and zealously slices into his hand, grunting in pain as blood begins to ooze from his palm. He hands the blade to his left and the process repeats, every single one of the Chosen drawing blood with the dagger in a solemn covenant that he or she will fight until the end. Until our sweet salvation.

  Finally, after the dagger has made its way around the circle, I take the weapon back, the blade dripping with the mingled blood of the Harbingers. I rest the edge against my palm and begin to slice, feeling sharp pain as the flesh opens up, and smile as the blood pact is complete.

  Dropping the blade to the ground with a clatter, I raise my bloodied hand into the air and turn to address the Chosen once more.

  “We are all bound by blood now,” I declare, voice heavy with fervor. “And by our blood, our master’s victory will be assured. All hail Asmodeus, Lord of Byhalya and Prince of Darkness!”

  “All hail Asmodeus, Lord of Byhalya and Prince of Darkness!” The others repeat solemnly.

  Then, as one, we begin laying down our plans, intently discussing what each of us will do to create an atmosphere of chaos within the city.

  Never before have I felt such a profound sense of purpose in my life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Elias

  The rising sun looks like a ball of red flame, painting the land in violent crimson as it inches its way above the horizon. To the east the clouds have parted ever so slightly, allowing the radiance of the sun to break through – a good omen, if such things are to be believed, even if the land surrounding the City of Mages is now bathed in a color like blood.

  Standing on the balcony of my Academy rooms, I watch silently as the clouds slowly overtake the space previously carved out by the sun. The crimson slowly fades to a dull orange before eventually being swallowed up by the monochromatic grey that we have all grown accustomed to.

  Another sign, perhaps? I shake the thought away as soon as it enters my mind, turning to enter my sleeping chambers and not looking back.

  The domicile is open and well-furnished, no doubt reserved for some tenured professor of magic now conscripted into the army. My bare feet tread upon a finely-woven rug as I pass the enormous plush bed, ruffled for me having slept in it the night before. It wasn't a restful sleep – I haven't had one of those in years – but it gave me plenty of time to think about the upcoming battle, and what I must do to hold back the tide.

  I reach the armoire holding my clothes and pull open the door, reaching for a tunic and some breeches to cover my nakedness. Under normal circumstances, it should be the dead of winter. Now, it feels like midsummer, stiflingly hot and muggy from the clouds.

  Resting at the bottom of the armoire is my battle armor, well-oiled and cared for despite having not been worn in more than a decade. The boiled leather, plain but extremely well-made, reminds me of a time long gone, when fighting meant protecting the realm from other humans, not demons out of storybook legends. In truth, I would have liked to have worn the armor at the siege of Dunmar City, but it remained in a footlocker at the Grand Lodge. When I returned from my hearing with Tamara and the other Wardens, I was sure to bring it with me.

  Taking a deep breath, I reach for the armor and begin putting it on. The shin guards and thigh protectors go on easy enough, the leather straps tightening securely against my legs. The brigandine proves a little more difficult, the chest armor difficult to cinch on the back and sides. Fortunately, age does not prevent me from twisting my body and I manage to secure it well enough. The arm guards come next, hardened leather vambraces and heavy, studded gloves. On the right hand, the middle finger, forefinger and thumb remains uncovered to make it easier for me to fire arrows. Finally, I reach for my boots, the worn footwear protecting my feet and matching the rest of the armor perfectly.

  I pull the ranger cloak over my shoulders and turn to look at myself in the mirror, grimacing at the man I see staring back at me: dark hair with more grey in it than black, features weathered by the sun, wrinkles just about everywhere. The only thing I recognize is the eyes, dusky like iron and as sharp as a blade.

  "How did you get put in this position, old man?" I say to myself, heaving a sigh. "You're much too aged for this sort of thing."

  Turning to the table, I pick up my belt and strap it around my waist, the belt knife my master had given me bouncing against my thigh. Then, I reach for the quiver of arrows hanging from a hook on the wall, slinging the thing over my back with the fletchings within easy reach.

  I hesitate for a moment when I notice the sword leaning against the table. The hilt and cross guard glint dully in the light of the candles, as if daring me to draw the blade.

  Probably going to need something a little bigger than my belt knife, I reason, picking it up and strapping the scabbard to my belt.

  A knock sounds at my door, three heavy thuds that cause me to look up.

  "Lord Protector," says one of my bodyguards through the heavy oak. "It's time."

  Setting my jaw, I reach for the final weapon in the room: my unstrung longbow. It rests near the exit, the polished yew a faded brown and completely unadorned. Grunting in exertion, I bend the bow and set the string, then give it a few test pulls before hanging it on my shoulder.

  Then, having finally prepared myself, I push open the door and begin making my way to the western wall, bodyguards in tow.

  THE MORNING REVEALS a city made ready for war.

  As I ride through the streets I pass armed patrols and citizen militias, construction crews building barricades and craftsmen repairing weapons and armor. Nearly everyone hails me as the Lord Protector of the Nightingales, saluting me and bowing their heads in deference.

  How things have changed, I think to myself as I ride. The last time I was in this city I was in chains. Now, they hail me as some kind of hero – a Nightingale of all things!

  The end of the world must truly be upon us.

  The closer we get to the wall, the more frantic everyone becomes. Soldiers rush this way and that going about final preparations, and captains and other ranking officers shout orders, cursing those who move too slowly. No city folk are anywhere to be seen, the houses and shops closest to the wall are boarded up or serve to house weapon caches or troops.

  “Lord Protector,” a knight calls as I pull my horse to a stop before the barred gatehouse. “General Mohr awaits you on the wall. They... they’re here, sir. The demons have arrived.”

  “Thank you soldier,” I reply, dismounting with my bodyguards. “Now, back to your post.”

  The man races off and together, the Nightingales and I climb the stairs, making our way to the battlements.

  When we reach the top, we find the walls choked with people – knights and Nightingales alike gawking at the scene before them. It takes several minutes for us to make our way to the front, and when we do, my pulse starts to quicken.

  A sea of glowing red eyes greets me, a flood of demons so vast that it practically swallows up the land around the city in black and red. Monstrosities of every shape and size march in disorganized ranks through the Heartlands, approaching the walls like an unstoppable tide of death from the Eleven Hells themselves. Around me, men curse and pray, whispering to one another in frightened tones and echoing the thoughts that are no doubt on everybody's minds.

  Light almighty, how can we survive against that?

  Tearing my eyes away from the terrifying scene, I spot General Mohr a little way down the wall. He stands apart from the common men with a small group of knights, resplendent in plate forged to look like a roaring lion. His men are wearing similarly well-made armor, undoubtedly representative
of their noble blood, with hawks, dragons and boars emblazoned on their breastplates and pauldrons.

  Trailing my gloved hand along the whitish stone of the battlements, I make my way over to him, trying not to let my own fear show on my face.

  You'd better know what you're doing, Zara, I think, setting my jaw grimly. Because now we're trapped like rats in this city. There will be no retreat for us.

  "Protector Keen," Mohr says stiffly as I approach, glancing over at me for only an instant before looking back out at the encroaching enemy.

  "General," I reply somberly, standing next to him on the parapet.

  "It seems your apprentice did not exaggerate when he told us about this demon army," he says musingly, gesturing toward the R'Laar with a gauntleted fist. "I, for one, was hoping that he was for all our sakes."

  "Owyn's never been one to mince words," I reply dryly. "My only hope is that we've done enough to prepare."

  "We're prepared," Mohr answers with a confidence that I do not feel. "This 'Prince of Darkness' will find that Tarsys is no easy target for him to conquer. We've a few surprises up our sleeve that're sure to waylay him, if not halt him altogether."

  I nod, resting a hand on the hilt of my sword. "You're in charge of the defense of the city, general. Tell me where me and my men need to go and we will stand firm."

  Mohr glances over at me, a small hint of amusement glinting in his dark eyes. "Oh, I believe you. It wasn't long ago that we faced each other on the battlefield. You Nightingales fight like devils when backed into a corner. I'm glad that now you are on our side."

  Beyond, the R'Laar horde marches onward, drawing ever nearer to the walls with a rumbling thunder of footsteps. In the distance, plumes of smoke mark where farmhouses and villages have been burned, their inhabits either fled or slain or enslaved.