by Paul Sobol
From this distance the multiple explosions shook the entire castle, loosening stones and turning ancient mortar to dust, and had it not been for the protective barrier even the stalwart Keep would have been destroyed. As the surging motion of the surrounding ground ceased, those brave enough to gain their feet could only stare in awe at what now lay beyond the walls.
Where once had been soil and rock was now a narrow channel slowly filling with sea water. Of the enemy army could be seen very little; a few pieces of tattered armour and clothing and broken weapons. Had the soldiers on the wall any inclination to look closer they would have just been able to make out various body parts, but seeing as how most of it was covered in dirt and mud it all seemed indistinguishable.
Down in the courtyard, the tunnel entrance had fared little better, despite the hasty efforts of the sappers to close it in time. The unplanned demolition had removed all the rock and dirt around the tunnel’s entrance for several feet, and all that remained was a large crater. Those closest could even hear the sound of the ocean as the water began filling the lower tunnel.
“You’ve outdone yourself this time Commander,” said Marduk, obviously impressed with the decimation of the enemy force. “You’ve bought us much-needed time to prepare. Select a handful of trusted men and prepare for the next mission: capturing a Dark magician.”
Chapter Nine
Forx scratched at the scab where his left eye used to be, and although it pained him daily it was a comforting reminder that he was still alive. Not that death meant much to the demon imp, he would most likely find the experience somewhat…refreshing.
Today his task was to clean, and while this menial job was better suited to one of the ‘‘undead’’ it had been entrusted to him alone to fulfil. He did not want to displease the Master, not again, because very likely there won’t be a ‘next time’. Those who displeased the Master, or failed in their assigned tasks, often found their lives shortened considerably or, if he were in a generous mood, minus several limbs. The first time, Forx’s price was only an eye, which he had to gouge out with his own hand.
The deserted mansion they occupied now was constantly dirty, and Forx found his job seemingly endless. While he swept the banquet hall he knew other rooms would slowly be getting dirty, as ‘undead’ slaves shuffled around doing various jobs. The freshly animated corpses weren’t the problem; it was the dried out, desiccated ‘undead’ that shed flaking skin and hair wherever they went. Secretly, Forx suspected these slaves were kept around to keep him busy cleaning after them.
The ‘undead’ were such filthy creatures, and Forx wondered why there had to be so many of them, but knowing the Master there had to be a good reason. Thinking about the Master, quietly sitting down one end of the hall next to a roaring fire, caused the lesser demon to glance furtively in that direction. Forx dared not stop sweeping, but felt taking another look at the man was worth the risk. Above all else, he wanted to know his Master, so that one day he would rise to an exulted position, which brought with it power and unquestioned loyalty.
In the orange glow of the fire, a seemingly ordinary thin man sat casually in a high backed quilted chair. He had the look of a scholar or an academic, more at place in a library or laboratory. Balding, with a shock of silvered hair around the edges, the Master did indeed look quite human, but Forx knew the truth; the man was no more human than he was. Forx had been summoned from the fourth level of hell, which meant there was no way of knowing where the Master had come from, most likely the sixth or seventh level. But with the power to summon lesser demons into this realm, to use merely as slaves, he was definitely not to be trifled with.
However, circumstances change, and opportunity can be found anywhere. The catastrophe at the bar several months ago had certainly shown the Master may be subject to failure, and that could be seen as a sign of weakness. Forx, all too familiar with weakness, was slowly learning how to use it to advantage. After all, he had the best teacher.
The Master was most likely brooding over the incident now, Forx thought to himself. As he continued to sweep he too recalled that terrible moment: the day they were almost destroyed. Work on the new strain of Creeping Doom was progressing nicely. The Master had managed to combine the unstable elements of deadly fungus and his own concoction of viral agent that would turn subjects into zombies, but more than just the common shuffling ‘undead’ which were practically mindless. The new breed of ‘undead’ would be smarter, faster and stronger. Every infected human would unwillingly join the ranks, collecting vital life energy from the world which would channel back to the Master.
It was an ambitious plan by Forx’s estimate; he was very pleased to assist with the project, until two Light magicians decided to ruin everything. By destroying the only viable sample of Creeping Doom, along with the lab and test subjects, the Master had been set back several years’ worth of research and development.
Through some minor miracle, the Master had escaped through the sewers, along with his most loyal servant, however, they had not been far enough to avoid the cataclysm. Forx, whose body had shielded the Master from the worst of the Cleansing spell, had been severely burned and mutilated. Charred skin formed a painless scab over raw nerves and tissue which had slowly oozed pus and bloody fluids. Attempts to regenerate or heal were ineffective, but a diet heavy on living flesh and blood had finally caused the more severe wounds to close.
The Master, however, had emerged from the sewer relatively unscathed except for an angry burn mark across half his face. A good plastic surgeon could have fixed the damage when dark magic failed, but the Master was not that vain. Yes, the deformity bothered him because it made him stand out from other humans, but the demon within cared nothing for the flesh; it was merely a disguise, to be discarded when no longer needed.
That was the way with demons; take what you can then throw it away when it’s been used up. Forx had swept himself into a corner of the room, giving him the best chance to view his Master’s profile. The angry red burn scar on his face showed as a series of ripples, as though his flesh had literally melted, and although he still had both eyes the left one was milky white. The only remedy to disguise such deformity would be to cast an illusion over the damaged area; at least it would pass among the humans, but magicians were another matter entirely. Their Mage-sight would pierce through any illusion, which meant going out in public without a better disguise was now out of the question.
Seemingly lost in thought, gazing into the flames seeking answers to unknown questions, the Master surprised Forx when he spoke. “We cannot stay here any longer,” he said in a near-whisper. “I sense them closing in, and I fear we may not have another lucky escape.”
He referred to the Light magicians, scattered throughout the city in greater numbers, all tasked with a single purpose: to eradicate the scourge unleashed by the Master and destroy the Creeping Doom virus along with those already infected.
Such an undertaking would certainly require a large number of magicians, and if they knew or even suspected who they were up against they would probably double or triple their number soon. Just to be on the side of caution. But it seemed the Master had other plans. However, to Forx’s demonic thinking, running and hiding felt wrong. Cowardly. Un-demon-like.
Deep down inside, the demon imp knew his Master had exposed a fatal flaw: fear, which meant there was a weakness to be exploited after all. If Forx had his way, they should have immediately restarted the experiments on the Creeping Doom, continuing the necessary work in creating an ‘undead’ army capable of taking over the world. For a brief moment, he wondered if his Master had deviated from the path or worse, abandoned it in preference of self-preservation.
It was one thing for a demon to hide in the shadows; it was their way of surviving until strong enough to move against any opposition, but a demon should never accept it as a way of living. It went against every demonic principle. If his Master had wavered, then perhaps he should be replaced, and suddenly Forx knew what must
be done.
“As you wish, Master,” the lesser demon replied subserviently.
“Take my slaves to the abandoned warehouse by the docks, through the usual way; we don’t want to arouse suspicion.”
“And then?” Forx regretted the words instantly. His thoughts of late had emboldened him somewhat, which for the moment would prove disadvantageous to say the least.
“You do not question me! Only obey. Await my arrival at the docks. I go to find out how we can escape this tightening noose.” The Master rose suddenly from his chair and walked out of the room, leaving the burnt demon imp to take care of moving the ‘undead’ slaves. Forx would have to wait for the opportune moment to strike, when his Master least suspects it, when he is at his weakest. The thought of taking over, controlling the ‘undead’ horde, taking their mana to use for his own nefarious purposes sent shivers down his spine, and Forx began counting the days when it would all be his for the taking.
Entering the darkened library, the Master gestured with his hand and dozens of candles around the room flared to life. The soft light illuminated heavily laden bookshelves and a single podium in the middle of the room, upon which rested a large leather-bound book – its pages stained and browned with age, but most of the writing remained easily legible.
He could have lingered in the dining hall all night, but he had sensed something different, a subtle change, with his favourite minion. Forx seemed unquestionably subservient, despite losing an eye for his failure to adequately protect the laboratory. Yet he couldn’t quite put a finger on what felt wrong. Maybe it was the unwelcome brush with oblivion that had caused the change. Looking death in the face, metaphorically speaking, could change even a Demon Lord. Alone now, surrounded by the familiar smells and sights of his books, the Master felt more relaxed.
Crossing the room, the Master approached an ancient mahogany bookshelf, and from one of the shelves took down an ornamental silver mirror. He didn’t really need the artefact for this spell, but in his present state it would help focus his troubled thoughts. Focusing on the slightly tarnished surface he drew on a little mana and fed it into the silvered artefact. Concentrating on his latest acquisition, it was several moments before the mirror’s surface changed. The solid surface rippled, as though made of mercury, and an image slowly formed: a man’s face, stern and business-like, his angular features accentuated by a small scar along his jaw-line.
The acquisition had happened quite by accident. One of the Light magicians had been caught by surprise, infected with the latest sample of Creeping Doom the Master had been working on. At the time it was a last-ditch effort trying to escape through the sewer. Ordinarily, the contagion would have instantly overwhelmed the subject, breaking down mental and physical barriers, until all that remained was a controllable monster, but the effects of the Creeping Doom on a magician was yet unknown.
From the look of things, the Master thought the impromptu experiment had turned out excellent results. His new pet was not showing the usual symptoms of being turned into a mindless zombie. No decaying of the flesh, no shuffling and general bumping into things. From all outward appearances he was completely human, and best of all a fully-functional and very capable magician, with just one difference: the Master could influence him. Not total control, to the extent of his other ‘undead’ slaves, but a little nudge here, a whisper there, and his pet magician could be easily manipulated.
Shifting the mirror’s perspective, the Master was able to observe his subject from another angle. The Light magician was in a car speaking to someone beside him. At first the conversation didn’t make sense, but the longer the Master listened he began piecing together small bits of information that might be relevant. A taskforce had been organised by the High Council to search and destroy those involved with the Creeping Doom incident. They were to rendezvous with a group called the Order some time tonight to coordinate a city-wide lockdown. With the city quarantined nothing would be able to escape. But the best information was the location the two Light mages would be stationed, and the Master knew that would be his way out.
Slipping past the barricade of magicians would be no easy task, but not impossible. Then it would be a simple matter of getting to the docks to leave the city. The Master’s next destination would be a fair distance, but with a definite goal in sight nothing could stand in his way, and for this new plan to succeed it would require a great deal of cunning and subterfuge.
With any luck, those searching for him will be chasing shadows, and by the time the magicians realise their mistake, the world will be consumed by darkness.
Chapter Ten
“Finally, you’re awake.”
“Simon?”
“Take it easy, don’t try and move just yet.”
A hand was on his shoulder, yet it felt like a tonne of bricks pinning him down to the bed, so even if Xander wanted to move he could not.
Prying open gummy eyes, Xander was rewarded by a thousand pins of light piercing his brain. At least that’s what it felt like, and so he started again by opening them just a little. The blurry room slowly came into focus as more and more light entered his retina, and while his eyes were still very sensitive he was thankful to be able to see something.
“What happened?” His voice was thick and a bit slurred, as though he had just visited the dentist and forgot to remove the cotton buds in his mouth.
“You were on the Tower of Testing,” said Simon. “There was some kind of incident, an explosion, and somehow you survived.”
“I remember the Tower,” said Xander, motioning for a glass of water, “although most of that night is difficult to recall. I thought I was someplace else, a castle, surrounded by a dark army, an explosion. Most likely it was just a dream.”
Simon placed a small cup in his friends hands, but fearing the contents would be spilled he kept a hand hovering underneath just in case. “You were out for quite a while, almost two weeks.”
“Two weeks!” Xander exclaimed, spluttering around a mouthful of water. A few drops escaping to run down his chin.
“Take it easy. I probably should have told you later, at least once you’ve fully recovered.” Simon took the empty cup and set it down on a nearby table.
Now that he was fully awake, Xander slowly became aware of his surroundings. He did not recognise the room. “Where are we?”
“Calm down,” his old school friend said in a lowered voice, “you’re in one of the Order’s safe-houses. I’ll fill you in on everything later, but for the moment rest and recover; we have plenty of time now that we’ve officially finished our tenure at the Academy.”
At that last bit of news Xander perked up. “It’s over? But I missed graduation, does it count still?”
“There wasn’t a ceremony this year. All of the final year students were sent home with certificates; you got a plaque, acknowledging your superior status as School Champion.” Simon pointed to the side table, and Xander could see the wood and metal plaque peeking from behind the water jug. His name in bold font and highlighted with gold.
“Thanks.” There wasn’t anything else he could say that could adequately express the range of emotions he felt, but his long-time friend understood completely.
“Ok, I guess you could do with one more surprise.”
Xander barely suppressed a half-hearted groan of annoyance. “You know I don’t like surprises!”
“Picture this - we’re in the middle of a desert, plenty of sun, sand, beautiful women, and lots of money.” With that Simon got up and left his friend to ponder the cryptic message.
A few moments later it dawned on him: they were in Las Vegas! For the first time in his life, Xander wanted to be anywhere but stuck in bed, and although Simon and he were too young to legally gamble it would take a lot more than state and federal laws to keep them from having a bit of fun.
Resigned to the fact he wasn’t going anywhere soon, Xander decided to close his eyes and hope the time would pass quickly. Not realising just how tired
he really was, Xander woke up two days later feeling hungry and in a dire need of a hot shower.
“So, which casino should we hit first?”
“We won’t get away with this,” said Simon as they walked down the Strip. Monolithic buildings of all shapes and sizes on either side of the road offered promises of riches beyond imaging. The MGM Grand, New York New York, Bellagio, Caesar’s Palace: each with its own unique look and experiences on offer, and yet it all seemed fake. A façade.
“Of course we will,” Xander replied, undeterred. “A little illusion and we can pass as old men, or you could just do your usual tricks and they won’t even notice us.”
“Why do you even want to gamble? You’ll win every time if you use magic, and if you want money there’s easier and quicker ways of getting it.”
“It’s not just about the money. I want to see what all the hype is, experience the thrill of winning or losing, taking risks on long odds. And I promise I won’t use magic…much.”
The two finally stopped in front of an imposing building fronted by an enormous pool, but the absence of any swimmers suggested it had a more ornamental purpose. A low stone wall surrounded the fountain and people in their hundreds were lined up as if expecting a show. Intrigued, the two young magicians made their way closer.
Hidden speakers began playing music, and suddenly jets of water shot skyward from the middle of the fountain. Throughout the song the water jets kept synchronised time like ballet dancers, dipping and swirling and jumping higher than thought possible. The finale had the entire crowd clapping and cheering as the last geyser shot into the air some fifty feet, accompanied by what sounded like a thunderclap.
As the tourists floated away from the spectacle, Xander and Simon entered the famous Bellagio casino. The hotel foyer was crammed with people checking in or out, and beneath a vast colourful array of sculptured umbrellas the two young men felt excited to be amid such ordered chaos. Off to one side, beyond the men in suits checking proof-of-age identification, a sea of gaming tables and chiming slot machines. Crowds gathered where the action was hot, and today it seemed roulette and poker was most popular.