by Dan McGirt
“We are in the lowest levels of the fortress proper,” said Merc. “Our quarry awaits us in the throne room many floors above. Let us proceed with stealth and caution. No mulka chewing yet.”
“Aieee!” cried the Malravians. I thought this an odd response until I noticed that we were surrounded by shimmering, translucent images of broken and bloody men, women, and children. They flitted through the air like phantom hummingbirds, passing insubstantially through the walls, the floors, even our bodies.
“Calm down!” said Merc. “These poor ghosts mean us no harm. Are you warriors or sheep?”
I heard a few bleating sounds from the back of the group, but something else had my attention. The ghosts congregated around me, then dropped to their substanceless knees in apparent homage. Overwhelm’s light went from pink to deep rose to a brilliant scarlet hue. My armor seemed to glow as well. The Malravians fell back in wonder. Even Merc looked surprised.
“What is this?” I asked. “Why are they doing that?”
“There is an obscure legend that the ghosts of Marn will be freed from their eternal imprisonment when the Mighty Champion returns to these halls to defeat a great evil. I never put much stock in it. But from the reaction of these spirits, maybe I was wrong.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that if we win, these ghosts may be set free from their eternal torment.”
“And if we lose?”
“Then we’ll be joining them here.”
***
The Society had evidently confined their reoccupation of Marn to the upper levels, for the stony bowels of the citadel remained choked with the dust and debris of ten centuries of neglect. Escorted by a swarm of ghosts, we met no living creatures as we ascended through dark corridors and gloomy chambers, nor were we molested by any of the nameless supernatural horrors said to lurk here.
We thrice encountered prying eyes on patrol but, true to the word of Necrophilus, they paid us no heed. All went according to plan until I opened a door and found myself looking at the shapely tattooed back of a tall woman holding an ivory wand. She had long black hair, pale white skin, and wore a corseted bodysuit of black and purple leather studded with numerous spikes. In the great hall before her were assembled dozens of the Society’s lesser wizards.
“The hill scum without must be taught a severe lesson,” she said. “You will proceed to the battlements at once. I want to see fireballs, lightning bolts, and acid clouds. I want the tribal trash out there broken, burned, and blasted. You will be evaluated on technique, accuracy, and lethality. Whoever fails to impress me will spend the night on my new tri-directional torture rack. I’ve been meaning to break it in and—what are you all staring at?”
The woman turned. We were eye to eye. I smiled and slammed the door in her frightfully pierced and inked face. The door promptly vanished in a burst of flame. The woman leveled her smoking wand at me.
“Eufrosinia the Cruel,” said Merc, stepping past me.
“Mercury Boltblaster?” said the woman, clearly shocked.
As an aside, Merc said, “She specializes in pain and torture magic.”
“Lovely.”
“I’ve been saving a few new spells just for you, Boltblaster,” spat Eufrosinia. “Oh, I’ll enjoy breaking you!”
“Sorry we can’t stay and chat, Eufy, but we’re on a tight schedule here.”
With a gesture from Merc, part of the ceiling collapsed, forcing Eufrosinia to leap back into the assembly hall to avoid being crushed.
“Eufy?” I said.
“Let’s move!” commanded Merc. “They know we’re here!"
Gongs and alarms sounded as we ran down the corridor. We turned left at an intersection to avoid a squad of guardsmen approaching from the right and found ourselves facing a pair of towering bronze doors. The guards were right at our heels. The Malravians shoved huge wads of mulka leaves into their mouths and turned to face the Society’s men. I joined them in the forefront of the fray.
Merc faced the doors, concentrating on a spell. He waved his hands in an intricate pattern. The doors glowed red, then white, and finally melted into a bubbling pool that quickly cooled into a misshapen bronze sheet on the floor.
“This way!” said Merc. “Quickly!”
I obeyed, but the Malravians, now foaming at the mouth, ignored Merc’s command and plunged through the last of the guards to charge the onrushing wizards led by Eufrosinia.
“They’ve gone into battle frenzy,” said Merc. “I was hoping they’d hold off until we faced the Ruling Conclave. No way to control them now.”
“So just the two of us again?”
“It always seems to work out that way.”
Beyond the doors was a huge library, half a mile long and almost as wide. We stood on a broad balcony crowded with cluttered desks hastily abandoned by frightened scribes. Above was a barrel-vaulted ceiling that ran the length of the library. Just below the balcony were the tops of monstrous bookshelves that stretched down out of view. Each overflowed with books, scrolls, and clay tablets. A series of narrow catwalks connected the balcony to the shelves. The scribes fled down into the stacks.
“The Library of Darkness,” said Merc. “The main archive of the Dark Magic Society. All of their forbidden knowledge, fiendish plans, membership rosters, and quarterly activity reports, going back a thousand years. I have in mind an excellent diversion.”
He made a few passes of incantation. A puff of smoke jetted from his hands and dissipated. Merc frowned.
“So much for my spectacular fireball. They must have an anti magic field in place to protect the books.”
From the corridor behind us came the war cries of the Malravians mingled with explosions and dying shrieks. It was impossible to tell which side was getting the worst of the melee.
Merc consulted his map. “The throne room is up two more levels.” He sprinted out onto a catwalk. Before I could follow, Eufrosinia and three junior wizards reached the door. All bled profusely from multiple wounds. The underlings, heedless of the anti-magic field, projected a selection of weirdly colored flames and balls of light at me, all of which fizzled out at the threshold. Eufrosinia merely smiled a wicked smile and flicked her wand.
“She cut the field!” cried Merc, turning to defend himself from her next spell. But with a second flick of her wand the catwalk gave way beneath him. Merc fell from sight.
It was a long way down.
I raised Overwhelm to attack. Eufrosinia let me get in sword range before raising her hand in a commanding gesture that paralyzed me mid-swing.
She raked her long purple fingernails down my cheek by way of a caress, then licked the fresh blood from my broken skin. “So good of you to join us, Jason Cosmo. The Overmaster is expecting you.”
The ghosts reappeared, swirling around me in great agitation and sorrow. Their supposed savior was unable to save even himself.
*****
Chapter 22
Clad in nothing but a tattered loincloth that I hoped had been laundered, I was lashed to a copper-plated X frame suspended from the ceiling of a high-vaulted chamber of dark stone. The air was thick with ancient malice and murky with the indistinct grey outlines of the darting ghosts of Fortress Marn. The hopeless spirits flitted around me like pale abstractions, their anguished faces materializing before my eyes. The effect of Eufrosinia’s paralyzing spell had faded, but I was just as effectively immobilized by my shackles.
In the center of this great round chamber was a wide pit partially filled with charred black lumps that looked disturbingly like human bodies. Facing me across the pit was a terraced dais supporting the twenty-three thrones of the Ruling Conclave of the Dark Magic Society. On the first and lowest tier were the skeletal ivory and onyx chairs of the Twelve. Above and behind them, in the second rank, were the spine-backed seats of the Seven, carved from malachite and black jade. Next were the places of the Three, weirdly formed seats of a strange green stone veined with purple. They pulsed and glowed with an un
natural luminescence.
Only half the seats were occupied. The members of the Ruling Conclave wore elaborate wizardly garb clearly pulled from the evil side of the closet. Skulls, daggers, horns, and frowny faces were the predominant print motifs. I recognized none of the group save Eufrosinia, who sat among the Seven.
Between the thrones and the pit was a long stone table where lay the relics of the Mighty Champion—Overwhelm, Gardswell, the armor and helm, the Ring of Raxx.
One throne stood above all the rest. It was forged of the hellish metal infernium, inlaid with accursed blood gold, and studded with gems. The high back of the chair was shaped like a demon’s open maw, the armrests like the coils of a great serpent, the feet like dragon’s claws.
“I am Erimandras the Overmaster,” said the figure seated there.
I could not conceal my shock and horror. Erimandras was a boy! Barely into his teens, if that. The chief architect of all the vile schemes of the Society, the evil genius who led their pursuit of world domination, wasn’t even old enough to shave!
He wore a fine robe the color of a nightmare and an elaborate horned headdress. His gaunt young face was as white as a freshly bled corpse, with thin black lips like a line traced in blood from the darkest chamber of his evil heart. A slim wand of blue metal tipped with a five pointed crystal star rested across his knees.
“Aren’t you a little young?” I said.
Intense waves of purest agony ripped through my body, as if tiny barbed hooks were piercing every cell. The sensation ceased even as the scream reached my throat; but I screamed anyway, scattering the ghosts like a flock of startled pigeons.
“I did not give you leave to speak, Jason Cosmo,” said Erimandras.
I grimaced, but held my tongue.
“We have gone to great trouble and expense to capture you, but it will all be worthwhile once you reveal what you know. And that you will surely do. Let us begin—where is the Superwand?”
“How should I know?”
The agony hit me again, this time lasting slightly longer, perhaps a full second. Erimandras waited until the echoes of my screams faded in the vast chamber before continuing his interrogation. He raised the blue wand.
“I seek the Superwand, of which this is but an authorized souvenir replica. You stole it from my Dark Master a thousand years ago when you were the so-called Mighty Champion. You stole it and you hid it. I ask again—where is the Superwand?”
“I wasn’t even born a thousand years ago! None of us were! Well, maybe that old guy there in the third row.”
Another burst of agony racked my body, longer and more intense, though I wouldn’t have believed that possible only moments ago. I screamed as if I had lost my soul. The ghosts swirled madly about the chamber like dry leaves in a storm.
“You are Jason Cosmo. You are the reincarnation of the so-called Mighty Champion, also called Jason Cosmo, who ended the glorious Age of Empire. You treacherously trapped Lord Asmodraxas in a prison from which he cannot escape until what you stole from him is restored. The Society has searched to the literal edge of Arden seeking the wand and we have found not a clue. So again I ask you—where is the Superwand?”
“I’m a turnip farmer from Darnk. I’ve never seen the Superwand in this life or any other.”
Again the agony came. Erimandras let me writhe and howl for almost a full minute before he allowed the pain to subside. I hung in place limp and breathless, my heart pounding, my body drenched with sweat and other bodily fluids.
“Do not think to deceive me,” said Erimandras. “The equation is simple. I need the Superwand to free my Master so that he may reclaim his proper station as Overlord of the Assorted Hells and Ruler of All Arden. Your ancient incarnation hid the wand. Knowledge of its location must therefore be locked in the depths of your pitiful mind. If it were not, the spineless godlings would not have gone to such useless lengths to protect you. I will pry the information out of you even if I must strip away every shred of your sanity, every vestige of your humanity, every tender morsel of your shriveled little soul. Now, where is the Superwand?”
“I...don’t...know.”
I blacked out this time. Nothing had changed when I came to. Whether that was seconds later, or hours, I did not know.
“As potent as the Awful Agony Matrix is, Cosmo, you should know that we have even stronger persuasive devices in our Chamber of Damnation, for our cruel Eufrosinia is most inventive. Shall I order one of our truly unpleasant machines brought up?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Then tell me where to find the Superwand.”
“I can’t,” I gasped, bracing myself for another blast of pain. It didn’t come.
“I tire of this,” said Erimandras. “It is time for you to face my Master yourself. We will then see if you continue to resist. Prepare the Mirror of Asmodraxas!”
The other wizards shifted nervously at this command. I noticed for the first time that the wall behind the thrones was actually a gigantic concave sheet of black glass, surrounded by an infernium frame engraved with diabolical symbols.
Before anyone could act on the Overmaster’s command, the iron-riveted doors to the chamber swung open. Natalia Slash entered, dragging Isogoras the Xornite behind her in chains. Both his legs seemed to be broken. She pulled him around the pit to stand before the Ruling Conclave.
“Lord Erimandras, per the terms of our contract, I bring you Isogoras the Xornite.”
“Ah, yes,” said Erimandras. “Your timing is somewhat inopportune, Lady Slash, but this gift is most welcome.” He regarded Isogoras coldly. “Xornite, you have repeatedly failed me. You had the simple task of bringing a single man into our ranks, yet he consistently eluded you. I instructed you to eliminate him, and you failed in that. Furthermore, you twice had Cosmo himself within your grasp and twice failed to capture him, so that he came into our power through his own folly whilst you thrashed about in the Incredibly Dark Forest. I must wonder at such consistent incompetence. I must wonder if you are not in league with those traitors who dare defy me, whose guilt is plainly evident by their absence today. Perhaps you are their ringleader. Perhaps you would set yourself up as Overmaster in my place.”
“I heard him speak words to that effect,” said Natalia helpfully.
“Overmaster, she lies! Never have I—”
“Silence! I did not give you leave to speak. No words of explanation can save you, so best to say nothing. I instructed Lady Slash to bring you to me in chains once your treachery was apparent. She has done well and will be rewarded.” Erimandras paused. “Now let the Mirror of Asmodraxas now be activated—with the traitor as the first sacrifice!”
“Overmaster! No!” Isogoras dragged himself toward the thrones but Natalia yanked him back.
“You are warned once again to hold your tongue lest it be plucked from your mouth. You have failed in so much. Try not to fail in dying with dignity.”
Strong slaves in iron masks entered the chamber and poured vats of oil into the pit. A brand was lit and thrown in. Split tongues of fire leapt high above floor level, producing tremendous heat. Lashed to the metal frame, I felt myself slowly roasting. The members of the Ruling Conclave seemed unaffected despite their assorted hoods, robes, masks, and large hats.
Now the slaves lifted Isogoras from the floor and held him aloft at the edge of the pit. Sweat boiled from their bare chests. Their skin blistered. But they were oblivious to it all.
Isogoras whimpered.
“Now,” said Erimandras.
The slaves hurled the Xornite into the pit. The engulfing flames incinerated Isogoras before he landed amid the remains of the previous victims. The crackling roar of the fire overwhelmed his dying screams. The flames grew hotter. The ghosts of victims past fled the chamber in horror.
“You may make payment to my account at the Bank of Caratha,” said Natalia, turning to leave.
“It shall be done,” said Erimandras. “But stay yet awhile, Lady Slash.”
/> “I have other business to attend.” Her back was to the Overmaster.
“I insist,” said Erimandras, his voice becoming hard. Natalia stiffened. “I will soon have a new mission for you.”
She turned to face him and bowed slightly. “As you wish.”
The masked slaves led in more prisoners: men, women, and children of every race and nation. All were hurled screaming into the pit. If ever I had doubted the wickedness and inhumanity of the Dark Magic Society, this made it plain. This was how little life was worth in the days of the Evil Empire. This was how it would be again throughout the Eleven Kingdoms and beyond if the Society triumphed. This was what The Gods had charged me to prevent.
But I could do nothing. I was in the Society’s power, to be tortured, bled, and broken at their whim. Others would have to carry on the fight. All I could do was resolve to end my own life rather than do anything to help these butchers. And I was unable to do even that. Unbidden thoughts of Sapphrina filled my mind. I would miss her and what might have been.
With each sacrifice, the flames darkened, stained by innocent blood until they were as black as the bowels of midnight.
Erimandras stood. His throne and the pedestal on which it rested rotated to face the huge mirror. The dark glass reflected the black flames of the pit. Erimandras uttered an incantation that caused the reflected flames to glow until they filled the whole of the mirror. Then he began the summons.
“Great Asmodraxas, Lord Among Lords, King of All the Hells, Prime Mover of the Profane, Nabob of Nightmares, Author of Dread, Scary of Scaries, Sum of All Fears—heed thou the summons of thy servant Erimandras! Thine enemy is now in thy power and the day of thy triumph close at hand!”
The reflected flames in the mirror warped and twisted until they formed a gigantic face, a visage at once beautiful and terrible, inspiring both loathing and love, both a desire to fall down in adoration and an impulse to flee in abject fear. The members of the Ruling Conclave bowed their heads. Some trembled. Natalia looked away. The slaves continued their gruesome chore, feeding the fire with fresh sacrifices.