by R. E. Fisher
Lavalor would have to determine a course that would ensure his survival, a way to conquer the Realm of Light, and a plan to keep Cyris under control. Even on their own, these tasks were insurmountable; to attempt such a feat invited death, but he would have it no other way. After all, he had created worlds and was now close to becoming a god himself.
Lavalor’s leisurely walk lasted hours as he enjoyed his realm and contemplated how he might rise above the impossibility of the tasks laid before him and the impending cataclysm. At long last, he walked along the edge of the cliff that took him closer to Ash Keep. He was lost in his thoughts when his keen hearing caught the low, cautious scrape of flesh upon stone. All things within Asmordia were a threat of one sort or another.
Drawing his sword, he turned toward the threat. The bright green glow of his blade should have been enough to warn whatever was stalking him that he was a king, not simply another citizen. A blow struck him between his shoulders and he stumbled dangerously close to the ledge. Regaining his balance, he spun around and spotted his attacker.
It was only a lowly imp, a minor demon, trying to advance its position within the realm. The imp attempted to look ferocious but failed to impress Lavalor. Leaping for Lavalor’s throat, it bared its fangs and claws. Lavalor reached out, caught the imp by its throat, and squeezed, beginning to suffocate it. The demon clawed at the Elfaheen’s arm, but its talons and teeth, which usually shredded flesh and armor, were no match for the magic that protected Lavalor in his realm.
“Oh, my dear, you have no idea, do you?” he said, his taunting grin telling the imp more than the words had. Lavalor continued squeezing and moved toward the edge of the cliff, holding the imp out at arm’s length. Far below, a small river of molten stone flowed toward Fort Perish.
The imp struggled to grab hold of something—anything—to prevent being dropped into the molten river below, but with little result. It bit down on Lavalor’s arm, but its teeth could not penetrate his flesh, so it did the only thing it could. The imp tightened its spiny fingers around Lavalor’s arm and began kicking at his face. As it struggled to draw breath, its eyes grew wide in fright, its kicks becoming more frenetic as it realized its fate.
“Scream out for mercy, little one, and I may grant it,” he said. He tightened his fingers around the throat of the imp, ensuring that it couldn’t.
Lavalor smiled, saying nothing as he released the imp into the chasm, watching as it fell. The pitiful creature bounced off the jagged stone walls of the canyon, its pathetic screams of pain echoing each time the stone ripped open its flesh. Lavalor watched indifferently as it fell, landing in a motionless heap at the bottom.
“Damn. Missed the river. Should have tossed it,” Lavalor muttered to himself.
He watched as the crumpled body began to gingerly drag itself away from the heat of the molten, flowing river of stone.
Angered that it still lived, he uttered a drift spell and stepped off the edge of the cliff, floating down on the air currents to the shore of the molten river below. Without pity, he walked to the imp and raised his boot to crush its skull, but stopped when the glint of metal next to its head caught his attention. Normally he would not have cared about getting blood and gore on his boots, as it showed that he had done some work that day; so he moved to where the imp lay between him and the river, kicking its broken body into the fiery flow. He listened with glee as the imp’s brief scream was cut short as the molten stone filled its mouth. The imp’s brief pain brought him a rush of pleasure.
He turned his attention back to the metallic glint. It was rare that anything glistened within the depths of that place, so he was curious about what it could be. Using the toe of his boot, he began pushing away the sand and glass that covered it, and discovered that it was a sizeable piece of ore. Kneeling, he saw that it was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It was unusual for any metals to survive intact in Asmordia, especially so close to the shores of any of its hot, flowing rivers.
Ignoring any damage to his prized gloves, he began clearing the dirt and glass from around the ore. To his delight, he saw that it was large enough to be useful—and he knew Maleaux would be just the one to make it so.
“How did this survive intact?” Lavalor muttered.
He uttered another spell, levitating the ore, and immediately began traveling to Maleaux’s Forge, setting aside the sense of dread that still hung over him.
As he neared Maleaux’s Forge, he watched as the abnormally short Elfaheen stepped through the thick door that led into his keep. How does he do that? Lavalor thought as he continued to make his way toward the black stone keep.
Maleaux’s Forge surpassed any keep within the realm of Asmordia, with its odd angles and intricate stonework. It was remarkably beautiful to any who were fortunate enough to have visited it and been able to depart the keep. For those beings that hadn’t, it had been a horrible final sight. Maleaux preferred his own work to the company of people and had spent centuries building his forge, and it showed. There were none within this realm—or any other—that could rival his ability to forge metal and hew stone.
The tall, thick archways crisscrossed above the courtyard; Maleaux had crafted them to capture the Asmordian winds. Their design also forced those currents deep into the heart of his forge. Those heated winds were increased as they traveled down the shafts, causing the fiercest of heats within the heart of the forge. The superheated air allowed him to forge even the most difficult ores and metals. It was no wonder the dwarves in the Realm of Light worshipped the runt of an Elfaheen.
Maleaux smiled politely as Lavalor drew closer. “And to what do I owe the honor of this visit? I’m assuming you have some need of me?” he asked with a small degree of derision.
“What is this?” Lavalor asked as he walked into Maleaux’s keep past the blacksmith.
“I’m not sure,” Maleaux answered, examining the rock as he stopped to secure the keep’s heavy iron door. He had long since grown tired of Lavalor’s arrogance. Lavalor wasn’t the only Elfaheen to have built the place. Twelve other Elfaheen ruled over their principalities in Asmordia, and none had done more since arriving than him, not even Lavalor. No one had put more blood or magic into creating Asmordia than he had, not even the Elfaheen who thought himself a king.
“Bring it this way,” Maleaux told Lavalor, guiding him into his keep’s dust-covered elegant receiving hall.
“So, what can you do with it? It’s strong to have survived intact,” Lavalor asked impatiently, interrupting Maleaux’s thoughts.
“Aye,” Maleaux answered. After centuries of swinging his steel hammers, he picked up the heavy piece of ore with ease. His strength surprised Lavalor. He intentionally took his time to look at it from every angle.
“What do you want done with it?” he finally asked Lavalor.
“Make me a sword if there is enough of it,” Lavalor answered, perturbed at Maleaux’s disrespect. “A dagger if not. If it can survive the heat of the rivers, creeks, and The Sundering, it should make a worthy weapon, don’t you think?”
“Aye. Let me get to work on it. I’ll let you know,” Maleaux said dismissively to Lavalor.
Offended but knowing he needed the blacksmith, Lavalor ignored the additional slight. “Send me whatever you make with it, but make it magnificent. Something worthy of me.”
“I'll make what it damn well tells me to make,” Maleaux snapped, his eyes flashing and lip curling into a snarl.
Does Maleaux not realize I am almost a deity and that it is his role to shape those things around my will? Lavalor thought with contempt, then said aloud, “As you wish, Maleaux. Don’t disappoint me, though. I don’t need another pitcher or piss pot! Bring it to me within the week and have it ready, whatever it is.” He turned to leave the forge, knowing he had made his expectation clear to him.
Maleaux smiled as Lavalor turned to leave, tickled that he had frustrated the would-be king. He realized that the weakling would not be able to open the heavy door, so he
set the ore down to open it, allowing his guest to depart.
After a fortnight of blood, sweat, labor, and the accumulation of the necessary components, Maleaux completed his forging of the blade and wrapped it carefully. He wrapped it not for fear of damaging it, but to hide it from the possible view of others. They would recognize its value immediately, and since he had no wish to kill on Lavalor’s behalf, he took the necessary precautions to keep from having to do so. He grabbed his war hammer and hung it from his belt, leaving his forge.
Maleaux begrudgingly began the trip to Ash Keep. He rarely left his forge, but this was a short journey and he knew at some unforeseen point he would need Lavalor.
He made the several-hour journey on foot, not really expecting any problems since he was one of the thirteen remaining Elfaheen. Though his comparatively short stature might cause some of the inhabitants to think of attacking him, his white hair would warn them of who they would be dealing with. His oversized war hammer was also a remarkable deterrent.
He drew near the bridge that would take him up the mountain to Lavalor’s keep and watched as a gargoyle took flight—to warn Lavalor, Maleaux assumed. The only other guardians consisted of two warriors—one with skin of midnight black, wearing shoddy light mail, and the other covered in only tattoos and a short shift of leather. Both watched as he drew near the bridge. Maleaux started across, and the two guards, who had clearly been told of his coming, parted to let him complete his crossing. Maleaux himself had built the bridge before the slaves had been created and the souls of the dead stolen. He climbed the high mountain with little effort, and the gates were opened as he neared. Lavalor walked out to meet him, seeing the wrapped sword that was strapped to Maleaux’s back.
“You have finished,” Lavalor told him. Not inviting him in, he said, “Let me see it.”
Realizing the game that Lavalor was playing, Maleaux smiled as he removed the blade from over his shoulder and handed it to the much taller Elfaheen.
Lavalor tore off the leather that had been used to hide the weapon and tossed it to the ground as he saw the hilt and scabbard for the first time. Lavalor drew the blade from the scabbard and saw that he had been brought a single-edged longsword. The black blade looked to be made of polished onyx stone rather than steel, which caused Lavalor to glance briefly at the blacksmith, who wore a self-satisfied smile. Lavalor returned to examining the blade and noticed the flat spine on top of the blade, which told him this was a cleaving weapon, not a finesse blade. Its tip angled back and upward, creating a barb of massive size, which would guarantee a painful death. It would slice both going into and when ripped from the flesh of any beast. For a warrior of great strength, it could also catch the blade of an opponent and deflect their attack or even rip the blade from their grasp. The grip was made of demon’s horn and was wrapped in demon-skin leather, having once belonged to some unfortunate soul. Its crossguard and pommel were made of a refined metal that was drawn from the ore and glistened with a golden hue. The blade did not reflect light, nor was it as heavy as one might have expected, given its length of almost four feet. Seeing that its balance was perfect as he swung it out in an arc, toward Maleaux. Lavalor thought that it should have weighed more.
“Is it steel or stone?” Lavalor asked Maleaux.
Maleaux’s grin grew even wider at Lavalor’s confusion. “It held its razor’s edge against everything I tested it on. It sliced my anvil in two! In two, I tell you!”
Having seen the massive slab of steel that Maleaux called an anvil, Lavalor couldn’t help but be impressed by that statement. Without even realizing it, he muttered, “Astonishing!” He paused for a moment and then asked, “How were you able to accomplish this?”
“Thanks to Brother Fey’s knowledge and my improvisation, let’s say that Asmordia won’t miss that greater demon, seven lesser daemons, nor any of the succubi or imps that I needed. Fey’s ability to meld light, strong materials was unmatched!” Maleaux offered with a toothy grin.
“You have done exactly as I asked, Maleaux. Thank you,” Lavalor said rather calmly as he slipped the black blade into its scabbard. He then removed the rapier from his waist and replaced it with the longsword.
He held the rapier for a moment before turning and offering it to Maleaux, holding it toward the blacksmith. “This should be payment enough. No other holds a weapon from the king,” Lavalor said arrogantly.
Maleaux looked at Lavalor, praying the scorn was not visible on his face. “I could not accept that.”
“But you must. I insist.”
“As you wish, Lavalor,” Maleaux replied, taking the rapier from Lavalor.
“Thank you, Maleaux,” Lavalor said dismissively as he turned to re-enter Ash Keep.
Seething, Maleaux turned and began walking down the mountain, away from Lavalor’s keep. Still angry as he crossed the bridge, he shouted up at the keep, “Ungrateful bastard!” and flung the rapier into the flowing lava that was the moat around Ash Keep, destroying it.
Whatever Maleaux has learned from Fey, he learned superbly, Lavalor thought as he walked over and sat upon his throne, examining the sword closer. Maleaux’s effort had resulted in a marvelous weapon that was perfectly balanced and lethal. It would be a fine home for his soul, once he determined that the time was ripe to occupy the sword.
Lavalor knew he was dying. This blade would be perfect for his needs. It would not weaken, die, or cause him pain and injury. It would be a much more suitable body for himself rather than this rotting meat bag he currently inhabited—or any that he could create, for that matter. The demons and other dark beings they were creating were also mortal, after all, but this blade would be immortal and the only remaining thing worthy of Lavalor’s soul.
He chose that moment to give the blade a secret name, a name of strength and magic. One that only he could draw upon once he had completed casting his magic on it. Its name was Usurper, but he would tell no one of this.
Chapter 3
“Time is not linear in any realm. To waste this time is to waste this gift.”
(A.Py., 1.1 - Book of Air, Tenets of Pyramael, Chapter 1, Verse 1)
Dmitri Stanislav walked home through the woods of the park, taking a shortcut as he rushed home. It would save him about ten minutes, he thought. His knew his father was going to be mad if he was late again. Dmitri wondered what kind of mood he would be in when he got home. Should his father find out that he hadn’t ridden the bus home, it would be a beating for sure. He didn’t want to ride that bus ever again. The other kids never let up. It wasn’t his fault that his father had gone to jail. He didn’t even know why he had gone to jail and neither did the other kids; they only knew he had gone. That didn’t stop them from taunting him about it every day, though. He hated them.
Dmitri crept out of the woods into the playground area and looked around. Not seeing any of the other kids, he thought, Good! as the need to pee overtook him. He looked around, spotting the toilets in the dim late afternoon light. He rushed to the toilet marked “Boys,” pushing open the door while hurrying toward the yellow-stained urinal.
In the rush to relieve his bladder and already unbuttoning his trousers, Dmitri hadn’t noticed that there was someone else in the darkened toilet stall.
While Dmitri managed to unhook the first couple of buttons on his trousers, he felt a hand grab him and cover his mouth and an arm wrap around his waist, lifting him up from the ground while trapping his own arms against his body.
Dmitri’s eyes widened in fear as his need to pee was forgotten. He attempted to reach up to try and rip the stranger’s hand away from his mouth, thinking that one of the boys from school had seen him go into the bathroom.
As he struggled to raise his arms to defend himself, he realized how much bigger and stronger his attacker was. He moaned in fear, realizing that it was a grown-up, not a school bully that was silencing him.
As his attacker lifted him from the ground, he screamed out in fear behind the hand that covered his mouth. Even to
his own ears, the muffled screams sounded too weak to draw anyone’s attention from outside to help him.
Carrying him, his assailant turned toward the door when Dmitri caught a glimpse of the man out of the corner of his vision. In his panic, he only managed to see that his attacker’s hair was brown and disheveled, and that he wore thick glasses with bulky, black frames. Dmitri felt the arm around his waist let go, and then he felt it brush briefly against his leg. He heard coins rattling against one another, and the man began turning Dmitri’s head so he couldn’t see what he was doing.
With his arms now free, Dmitri reached up and attempted to pry the man’s hand from his mouth. Before the stranger could force his head to turn, he saw that he had pulled his hand from his own pocket and was holding up a key ring to look for a specific key on it. Finally finding the one he wanted, he stepped toward the bathroom door and shoved the key into the lock, turning it sharply. To Dmitri, the sound of the clicking lock as it echoed against the tiles of the bathroom seemed louder than any noise he had been able to make.
Even at his young age, Dmitri knew what locked doors meant. They meant nothing but pain and apologies. They also meant that getting away was going to be impossible. That realization caused his fear and anxiety to double, so he did what most people do when faced with certain inescapable truths: he began to cry and panic. The panic forced his body to unwittingly increase his struggling attempts to get free.