As mad as Sustenon the Damned was, he had grown even more powerful in the last few years. He was always a strong mage, even when Andragos had tutored him, but he reveled in his power and thought himself more than he was. He wanted to be a god—and that was his undoing—but Erik would have to be at his best to win this battle. But what about the comment Syzbalo had made?
There was something the Lord of the East had said that had struck Andragos as worthy of considered thought, something about a mistranslation of the Dragon Scroll. He had made sure to make a copy—unbeknownst to Syzbalo—before handing the scroll over to the Lord of the East and had found some inconsistencies in the text as well. It was something about a key, but not a key, a golden dagger. Erik had the key. No, that wasn’t it either. He tried again to bring up a vision of Erik and his companions but to no avail.
Andragos sat in his favorite chair and closed his eyes to think. Images and ideas flashed across his mind and then he smiled and opened his eyes again. Now he understood, The Lord of the East thought himself so brilliant, with his Isutan mage and his witches and his growing knowledge of the dark arts, but the dagger Erik carried with him was not just a key. No. It was the Dragon Sword.
Tread lightly, Erik.
A knock came at the wizard’s door. He thought it might be more inquisitors from Fen-Stévock. For a while, it seemed as if they came every day. The Lord of the East had become bold in his mistrust of Andragos, sending such men to his door, looking for a traitor’s family and friends, as if he would know where they were. Andragos soon sent them back on their way to Fen-Stévock.
Andragos knew they would come. He saw it on Syzbalo’s face when they spoke of the traitor, Ja Sin. He knew the Lord of the East didn’t believe him. But there was no one to seek out; Ja Sin’s family was no longer at Andragos’ cottage.
The Black Mage had foreseen, long ago, that times like this might arise. He knew that his position would put him at odds with the leaders of Golgolithul, and so he created a portal in each of his dwellings. They led to various places, most of them pleasant and hospitable. The portal underneath his cottage led to a forest meadow on the other side of the world, a place no man had discovered yet, a place once inhabited by elves. He had taken care of the elves and much of his magic he gathered from the ruins they left behind. His thoughts of the white tower made him believe Erik had discovered a similar place—a meadow much like the one to which he had sent Ja Sin’s family. Of course, Fealmynster was once such a meadow as well.
It was just happenstance that Andragos had discovered it, and, as the years passed by, he learned the elves had many such meadows around the world. It was cool in his meadow, but not too cold. As far as he could tell, there weren’t any real predators of note, save for the occasional cat, but the magical wall Andragos had built around the enchanted meadow kept them away. That’s where Ja Sin’s family was.
Another knock came.
“Imperial Inquisitor!” the harsh, almost metallic voice said on the other side of the door. “Open, Mage!”
Andragos had had enough. He felt his face grow hot as he stood and faced the door. How dare these men, these insects not worth the dirt on the bottom of his boots, speak to him in such a manner? He lifted a hand, and when he blinked his eyes, he was behind the inquisitor and his two thugs.
The inquisitor was a stout man with short-cropped black hair and a blue cape that fell from two large pauldrons. He wore a long-handled sword at his side, and his plate mail, as he turned to face Andragos, was all black, the breastplate embossed with the Lord of the East’s symbol. His two guards wore similar mail with blue capes as well. They wore helmets with pointed visors and carried kite-shaped shields and spears in addition to their swords.
“What do you want?” Andragos asked.
“Open your door,” the inquisitor commanded, again, his voice metallic and hard.
“You may want to think twice about the manner in which you speak to me, insect,” the Messenger replied. “I could kill you in the most horrible way, bring you back to life, and then kill you again … over and over and over. I am tired of your bothersome inquisitions. I am done with you. Go away.”
He had thought, once, the Lord of the East didn’t know about this cottage, away in a remote forest of Northern Golgolithul. He would have to be more careful in the future.
The inquisitor looked flustered and scared, eyes wide, and face red. He didn’t quite know whether he believed the Black Mage, especially after Andragos flashed the man an insincere smile. Part of him wanted to kill this man. He wanted to turn him inside out, remove his intestines through his ass and show them to the insolent bastard before crushing every organ in his body … slowly.
“Orders of the Emperor of Golgolithul,” the inquisitor said. “Open your doors and let the inspection happen.”
“Emperor?” Andragos asked with raised brows, and then simply said, “no.”
The two guards stepped towards the mage.
“You don’t want to do that,” Andragos said.
They didn’t listen and lowered their spears to point at him. Enough was enough. He lifted a hand, and the black mail of one of the guards began to glow red, then white. He heard a scream emanate from the visored helm, but as the guard dropped his shield and spear and tried to remove the helmet, he found it was sealed and locked into place. He fell to his knees, his screams muffled by the visor, but Andragos could smell burning hair and flesh. Smoke spilled from the crevices in the armor, and, within moments, the guard fell forward. The iron of the mail began to melt and pool on the ground, the grass underneath catching fire until there was nothing left but a black spot.
Andragos looked to the other guard, who took a step back. He lifted his other hand and made a fist. The guard’s armor began to twist and crumple until it folded in on itself as if it were made of paper the Messenger had simply crushed in his hand. As the iron folded in, stabbing flesh, blood spilled from every joint and crevice in the armor. The man in the armor screamed, dropping to his knees. The sound of skin ripping, flesh tearing, and bones breaking filled the air until only a ball of iron remained.
The mage looked at the inquisitor.
“I am not scared …” the inquisitor began to say, but something stopped his voice.
Andragos held up a hand.
“Yes, you are. You are trying to hide your fear, but I can smell it, see it, feel it.”
Andragos closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He could feel the souls of the two dead men floating about, hovering just above their bodies. The Black Mage smiled and opened his mouth. He sucked in the air and felt the souls drift towards his mouth. They tried to resist, but there was no resisting the Harbinger of Death when he was driven to the point of rage. He sucked the souls into his mouth and felt their essence. Immediately, he felt stronger.
“You are stupid,” Andragos said. “Syzbalo is stupid. The Lord of the East thinks I am weak. My thousand years in this world have made me more powerful than any other wizard in the world.”
A ball of fire, small and compact, appeared in Andragos’ other hand, and he pushed it towards the inquisitor. It floated through the air slowly, and the inquisitor was unable to move. The ball of fire was close to the man, and it simply touched a bit of his cape when the fabric burst into flames. The man screamed as fire consumed his hair, the skin on his face melting away. As Andragos stared into the dying man’s eyes—the inquisitor falling to his knees, screaming and begging for mercy—the wizard wondered if the Lord of the East, or the witches or the Isutan mage were watching him; he suspected one of them was.
“Do not send another inquisitor,” Andragos said to whoever may have been listening. “I will not be as merciful to the next one.”
Andragos turned to see Terradyn and Raktas dragging a man roughly between the two of them, his hands bound behind his back, his face puffy and bruised.
“This is the traitor,” Terradyn said as he pushed the man to his knees.
Andragos looked at the man. He r
emembered selecting him after Patûk Al’Banan had foolishly attacked his caravan. Several of his Soldiers of the Eye had died in that attack while four hundred of the general’s perished, but that was his plan. He only needed to have killed one Soldier of the Eye. Undoubtedly taught by Patûk, Andragos had selected the man because of his prowess, his strength, and his skill.
“You were a spy for Patûk?” Andragos asked.
The man didn’t answer, and Raktas struck him across the face with the back of his hand.
“Were you?” Andragos asked.
The man nodded.
“He attacked me,” Andragos said, “and wasted four hundred lives just to implant a spy into my ranks. That has never happened before. Quite a sophisticated ruse, wouldn’t you say?”
The man didn’t reply.
“Patûk is dead, you know,” Andragos said.
“I know,” the man said flatly.
“So, do you now serve this Bu?” he asked.
The man just shrugged.
“You have caused Fen-Stévock quite a bit of trouble,” Andragos said, crossing his hands behind his back and walking around the man.
The traitor tried not to make eye contact with the mage, but Andragos caught the traitor looking at him through the corner of his eye. He also saw the man looking at the crumpled ball of iron that was once an armored man and the remains of the burning inquisitor.
“Fen-Aztûk is the true capital,” the man said.
Andragos laughed.
“Of course, it is,” Andragos said. “Because of you, ten thousand or more people died.”
Andragos stood behind the man, and the traitor looked at the mage over his shoulder.
“Traitors,” the man said, “all of them.”
“Even the women and children?” Andragos asked.
“Yes,” the man said, and then looked forward.
“You know, when I first came to Golgolithul, it didn’t exist. It was a collection of small city-states, each city its own government, vying for control of the east. A bunch of backwards men, awkward and clumsy all chasing a single whore. It was I, the Black Mage, who helped unite these city-states into what is now Golgolithul. Did you know that?”
“No,” the man said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“The Aztûkians, Stévockians, and any other family have no claim on the east,” Andragos added, his voice an iron-hard hiss. “I am Golgolithul. Not Patûk or Syzbalo. Not the Aztûkians. Bu or Pavin…me.”
He realized he was talking to himself and he turned back to the man kneeling before him.
“I had thought about asking you to spy for me,” Andragos said, and he didn’t miss the disapproving looks both Raktas and Terradyn gave him. “I need a spy in this Bu Al’Banan’s court.”
“Never,” the traitor said.
“I figured as much,” Andragos said.
He waited a while, letting the man kneel there, probably wondering what was going to happen next.
“The Lord of the East found a spy in his court, you know,” Andragos said.
“I didn’t know of him,” the traitor replied.
“He wasn’t one of Patûk’s,” Andragos said. “No. He was from Gol-Durathna. The Lord of the East had him flayed alive.”
“Sounds about right,” the traitor said.
“Shall I do the same with you?” Andragos asked.
“Do as… do as you wish,” the traitor said, trying to sound resolute and tough even though something caught in his throat.
“I am sure you would be a strong and brave man,” Andragos said, “up until I cut away that first piece of flesh, and you saw it fall to the ground. Maybe I would cook it in front of you, maybe eat it. It has been a long time since I have tortured a man in such a way. How would that make you feel, watching me eat your flesh as your life slowly slipped away?”
He walked around the man so he could face him. The traitor didn’t look tough anymore. He tried not meeting the mage’s gaze, but Andragos jabbed a finger hard under the man’s chin and made him look at him. Blood oozed where the fingernail had cut flesh.
“Once, I would have done it,” Andragos said. “I would have flayed you, healed you, flayed you again, healed you, and then flayed you a third time, just because I could. But not today.”
Andragos nodded to Terradyn, who held up a giant, two-handed sword. He brought it swiftly down against the traitor’s neck and, with a single swipe, severed the head. He did it so quickly the head stayed in place for a moment, and then toppled to the ground. Andragos looked up.
“Find this man’s battle brother,” he said, “Execute him in the same way.”
Andragos commanded one hundred Soldiers of the Eye, his personal guards, loyal only to him. They trained in twos. Each soldier had a battle brother, and they were responsible for one another—their training, clothing, food, guard duties. If one made a mistake, both were punished. If one was valiant in battle, both were rewarded.
When Raktas and Terradyn gave him a hard look, suggesting they disapproved of his leniency with both men, he added, “I will not torture a man like the Lord of the East, and I will not kill his family and friends; nor will I burn his whole company, but the men must know that a failure of their battle brother is failure for both.”
Raktas and Terradyn bowed, but they weren’t appeased. He knew it. He had softened lately—saving Ja Sin’s family was proof of that—but when the need arose, Andragos the Black Mage, The Messenger of the East, the Herald of Golgolithul, the Dealer of Death, could be just as terrifying as the Lord of the East.
53
Erik ran down one aisle of cells. It was clear that this place was old, ancient even. The stone of the cells was covered with years of muck and dirt and moss. He stepped gingerly, the floor slick with lichen and moisture. Without visible doors, the thick, iron bars of the cells rose all the way to the ceiling and seemed to be a part of the structure, as there were no holes from which they originated or in which they inserted.
Men and women of all shapes and sizes and colors filled the prison, but the dungeon didn’t just house humans. He saw a cell filled with white-haired wolves twice the size of a normal wolf, a cell with ogres—the giant man-like humanoids that he had seen in Finlo—antegants, dwarves, a creature with the torso of a man and coppery skin and the body of a scorpion, and another creature with the body of a man and the head of a wooly bull or bison. The prisoners clamored when they saw Erik. They yelled and cried and screamed and reached through the bars at him. The scorpion man clicked and hissed, the wolves barked and howled, and the man with the head of a bison snorted and grunted. They all looked lost and tortured, shadows of what they would have looked like outside this hell.
Erik understood some of them, pleading for him to set them free, and he wanted to. He presumed his dagger would help again, but he needed to see if he could find the others first.
“I will free you,” he said, standing in front of a cell containing several people—far too many for the size of the prison—and staring at the mournful, brown eyes of a woman who once had pale skin, now caked with dirt, and wild, brown, curly hair that stuck out in all directions and clumping together. Her dress was so torn and tattered, she might as well have been naked, and Erik’s stomach knotted as he considered what horrors must have befallen her in this place as she sat in a cell with mostly other men.
At the end, as he suspected, he turned the corner and ran into another hallway.
“Erik!”
He turned to see Turk, clinging to the bars of a cell.
“Turk!” Erik yelled, almost in tears.
“Cousin, get us out of this hell!” Bryon yelled, pressing his face between the iron bars.
“I will, let me just get my dagger and ....”
“Watch out Erik!” Turk yelled, but it was too late.
Erik felt something slam into him, and he flew through the air, landing with a thump on the stone floor, expelling the air from his lungs. As he regained his vision, albeit a little blurry, he saw a c
ell—rather, a cage—with an ártocothe in it. The giant spider hissed, and the bristles on its legs rattled. The arachnid tucked its abdomen under itself and spewed silky web at Erik. As the webbing shot towards him, he rolled to the side and jumped to his feet, the spider’s attack barely missing him. To his right, he saw another cage with a huge, white bear—entirely too large for the cell—with three little cubs. It roared and butted its head against the iron, shaking the space around them.
As he struggled to his feet, Erik saw the thing that had struck him—another magical experiment mutant that was, Erik suspected, once a man. Before he could really see the creature, it barreled into him again, lowering its shoulder into Erik’s chest and sending him backward, this time against a wall. The ártocothe hissed and the snow bear roared as Erik slid to the ground and fought the unconsciousness that tried to take him.
His vision blurry and his legs wobbly, Erik pushed himself to his feet. The beast standing in front of him had four arms and a rotund belly that sagged over its belt. Its mouth consumed half its face, and its eyes were lopsided, one half a hand lower than the other. It yelled a cry of victory and came at Erik. He moved out of the way just as the monster slammed its shoulder into the wall, cracking stone, shaking the foundation, and bringing bits of rubble down on Erik’s head.
Erik swung the elvish blade at the lower of the creature’s left arms. The magic in the sword flared to life and burned through flesh, removing the arm. The creature didn’t even seem to notice. In fact, it laughed. Where the wound glared at Erik, red and raw and smoking, two more appendages grew, tendons and arteries knitting together as new arms erupted from the injury with the sickening sound of tearing meat.
The monster—now with five arms—swung both of its right arms at Erik. He caught the lower arm with Ilken’s Blade, removing it, while catching the upper arm with Bryon’s sword, removing that one. Just like the other arm, two more arms grew where there had been one.
Dragon Sword: Demon's Fire Book 1 Page 34