Demon Lord

by T C Southwell

Bane stood beside the crystal and studied the ward glimmering deep within its translucent depths. A thousand facets held a thousand wards, each a reflection of the real one, or each other. To find the real ward, it seemed that he would have to enter the crystal, an unexpected problem. Rainbows of refracted light imbued it with glorious, delicate colours, shining in the watery sunlight’s pale radiance. Bane stepped forward. As he touched the crystal, he spoke two words of power. His hands sank into it, the sensation much like cold water, only it was within his flesh. Slowly, he pushed his arms in and advanced, moving now with mind and body to enter the resisting stone.

  Within the crystal, a fantasy world of light and reflections awaited him, with no hint of what lay outside. Aware that his power was being used up rapidly, he pushed on, the crystal flowing coldly through him. Blue pentagrams glimmered all around him, ethereal, beckoning, reflections of reflections, elusive and unreal.

  Bane reached for one, his hand passing through it with no sting of power, and he reached for another with frustrating torpor, his flesh creeping through the stone. Flaws leapt at him, bright with ward reflections, mirrors within the crystal. Clear passages opened ahead maddeningly, trapping him in illusory paths, guiding him in circles and using up his power in useless searching. He was lost in a maze of twisting crystal pathways, turned aside by flaws, led on by images, side-tracked by reflections.

  A sense of hopelessness came over him. There was no way to find the real ward, perhaps there was none, or perhaps it had been split into a thousand so he would die trying to find the right one. Pain pounded at his temples as his power drained from him like water down a hole. He had to do something soon, or he would die as Mirra had predicted. Bane looked behind him, finding only more meandering, facetted paths and endless reflections.

  The crystal had trapped him like a fly in a web, with no way out. He stopped, holding back the remnants of his power, the cold crystal melding with him, becoming a part of him. Slowly, against the stone’s resistance, he raised his arms. The runes on his chest ignited as he called for more power, and it welled from within him, sucked from his bones.

  A word of power echoed in his mind, and he flung the magic forth, every last shred of it, in a wave of dark force. The crystal cracked with a sharp report, and pain lashed him as flaws appeared, radiating out from him in dim corridors lined with images of the ward, multiplying, dividing, smashing into fragments, splitting into shards. A thousand wards became a million; splintering, fracturing, countless mirrors shattering, filling his head with the chiming, tinkling, crystalline pealing of a trillion tiny bells. His vision dimmed as the last of his power left him, and the crystal exploded, flying through him, out of him, ice through his flesh.

  Bane fell to his knees as the huge crystal disintegrated around him with a massive thunderclap, inhaling as he became solid once more. Crystals fell all about him, smashing against the rock, flying outward to vanish into the void, plunging down to a final shattering far below. The thunder rolled away across the plains, and he opened his eyes. He knelt in the centre of the ward, the pentagram’s glowing lines surrounding him, a trap set for a mage. He placed his hand against the invisible barrier above the ward, as solid as glass and as cold as ice, impervious to the Gather. He was trapped again, powerless.

  Two traps so far, how many more? Bane rested, hot slivers sliding through his head. He sipped from the flask to dull the pain. Now he could not Gather dark power from the world, the ward barrier shut it off. A mage would have been doomed, but Bane was no mere mage. He possessed the Black Lord’s power, abilities forbidden to lesser men.

  Bane placed his hands against the rock on which he knelt and began to Gather. The runes on his chest flared, five glowing blood red. Dark magic seeped upwards through the stone, drawn by the power of his call. Sweat beaded his brow and ran down his face to gather on his chin, the icy wind chilling it. His father must sense his struggle, for surely they would feel the drain in the Underworld. Droges would fade and demons shrink, perhaps even the inner fire would dim.

  There was no lack of power below, but it was locked within the rock, as difficult to extract as water from desert sand, especially in such vast quantities as he required. His eyes bulged with the effort, and burning tears streaked his cheeks. He strained, pulling, calling, Gathering with all his strength. The runes glowed brighter, a sixth beginning to shine. Then the power dammed in the stone flowed into him, released from its bonds. Bane gasped and shuddered, his flesh burning as the power soaked into it, his stomach clenched with the familiar revulsion the dark power engendered.

  Bane slowed the flood of magic, controlling it before it gathered too much momentum and overflowed him, but drawing on it until he had accumulated a sufficient amount to complete his task. It eased, and he relaxed, the runes darkening as the flow ebbed under his hands. As it stopped, he sat back, the dark fire seething within him, trapped by the skill he had learnt below. Sickness crawled in his belly like a writhing snake, and he swallowed hard to prevent stinging bile from creeping into his throat. When he regained control, he invoked the power. It surged at his command, and he flung it at the ward with a striking motion of his hands.

  The pentagram brightened under his attack, resisting him, forcing him to increase the power manifold. Its shimmering lines became incandescent, almost too bright to look at. Black fire fought with blue, striving to overcome it and quench its brilliance with shadows. The ward pulsed as its power weakened, unable to sustain so prolonged a defence. It flared one last time, then shattered in an explosion of crackling, vivid blue magic that hurled him, arms flailing, into the air.

  The monstrous thunderclap that accompanied the explosion stunned him, then he fell. Three traps. Air rushed past him, sucking the breath from his lungs, slashing his eyes with icy knives. He plucked at its cushioning force, which grew stronger as he fell faster and faster towards the earth. The brown and gold ground rushed up at him, and he shouted a word of power.

  Black fire burst from him, igniting the runes on his chest, and he directed it downwards. Instants before he slammed into the unforgiving earth, he slowed. The fire cushioned his impact, but still, he hit the ground with stunning force, the last dregs of air punched from his lungs with a soft grunt. A cloud of dust billowed around him.

  Bane rolled onto his back, his mouth open as he strained to draw air into his burning lungs. The world spun and dimmed, and he closed his eyes, becoming aware of someone thumping his chest. At last air rushed in with a whooping gasp, and he opened his eyes. The girl knelt beside him, stroking the hair from his brow, her worried countenance wet with tears. Annoyed by her unwanted ministrations, he pushed her hands away and sat up, only to find Dorel kneeling on the other side of him. She tugged at him, and he shoved her away too.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Bane’s cheeks were wet, and when he wiped them, his fingers came away bloody. A little strength seeped back into him, and he shook his head to dispel the shock and confusion of falling so far, so fast. The girl chewed her lip, and, with a grunt of irritation, he pushed Dorel aside, staring up at the monolith. The healer’s distressed expression left him in no doubt that he looked a mess, but he had broken half of the last ward.

  Smashed crystal lay all around, great chunks and tiny shards, some stabbed deep into the earth, like spears. The droge was unharmed, of course, but the girl had a cut on her head, clotted with dried blood, and another in her shoulder, which still oozed. He checked himself, for he had landed on a sea of razor-sharp crystal. Cuts covered his thighs and chest where it had sliced through his clothes.

  “Fetch my jar,” he ordered Dorel, who hurried away.

  While he waited, his shirt gradually soaking with blood, he cast a triumphant look at the girl.

  “Halfway there, and I am still alive.”

  “Just barely,” she replied. “The potion I made for you stops pain, but that is only a symptom of the real injury. How much pain would you be in now, without the medicine?”

  “A lot.”
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br />   “That is how close you are to death.”

  “There were three traps,” he retorted, as if that justified his state. “That damned mage was crafty.”

  “I do not want you to die.”

  He scowled, angry that she spoilt his triumph by carping about his health. “Leave me alone. I am well enough.”

  She glanced up at the great stone sentinel that towered over them, crowned with jagged crystal shards. “At least rest for a while, please?”

  “I was going to, anyway. I do not need you clucking over me like a damned mother hen. In fact, I do not know why I put up with you at all.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “I care about you.”

  He glared at her. “You would like me to believe that.”

  “It is true.”

  The droge returned, and Bane ripped open his shirt, revealing the oozing cuts on his chest. Dorel rubbed the gel on, running her hands over him with unnecessary enthusiasm. Bane tolerated it for a moment, then shoved her away and did it himself. The girl retreated, but Dorel remained, her avid, hungry expression sickening him. The droge worshipped power, and coveted any who possessed it.

  He thrust the pot at her. “Go and make my food.”

  Dorel pouted and flounced off, shooting a killing look at the healer. Bane strived to quell the shivers that racked him while he pondered the task ahead. Tomorrow, he would destroy the great block of stone and free his father. The back of his skull throbbed, the only pain the healer’s potion had failed to ease, but it was trifling. He rubbed his legs, making no attempt to stand because he knew he was too weak. His frailty irked him, delaying his triumph by forcing him to rest. He must perform another Gather soon, for he had hardly any power left.

  Bane only rose at sunset, and even then Dorel had to help him, for his legs buckled at every step. In the tent, he flopped onto the bed, closing his eyes as exhaustion sucked him into sleep’s soft arms.