The land was scorched and black, as if some great fire had turned the world to ash. Twisted black clouds writhed beneath a bloody red sun. Mazael walked past the crumbling foundations of ruined houses and the blackened corpses of long-dead villagers. He saw a cratered pit filled with writhing, snapping snakes, their fangs dripping with venom. A pair of wretched creatures, twisted serpents with human heads, crawled out of the pit. Mazael drew Lion and slew them both.
“Interesting, is it not?”
Mazael turned, black ichor sliding down Lion’s length. Lord Adalon stood nearby, his lips twisted in a cavorting smile. Again he held the black staff crowned with a silver raven.
“What?” said Mazael.
“How little we know of our origins,” said Lord Adalon. The snakes hissed and snapped, but could not climb out of the pit. “Most men know from whose loins they sprang. A few know their parent’s parents and a little of their history. The great houses can trace their lineage back for centuries, even millennia.” He laughed. “But do any of them truly know their origins? Do they?”
“The gods made men,” said Mazael.
Lord Adalon grimaced. “How very puerile. What were the gods thinking, eh? Likely they regretted their acts of creation the next morning. But you, Mazael, my boy, where did you come from? That’s the question that must occupy us now.” He gestured at the pit of snakes. “You came from this, you know.”
Mazael looked into the pit. “This?”
“Not literally, of course,” said Lord Adalon. “Think of it as a circumstance, one of many that led up to your birth.” He grinned, his teeth yellow and crooked and sharp. “That was such a happy day. I was so proud. You’ll make me prouder yet, before I’m done. And, ah, your fair mother.” His vicious grin widened. “Pregnancy gives a certain glow to a woman, wouldn’t you say? But when you were born...oh, my son, how did she cry. You must have been such a disappointment. She even tried to kill you. Pulled a pillow over your little wrinkled red face, tried to smother the air from your flapping little lungs...”
“Stop this,” said Mazael. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Lord Adalon laughed. “The truth always hurts, doesn’t it? But it will make you free. Free as a bird, free as the heavens...free as a demon.”
“Go away,” said Mazael. “You’re dead, Father, or have you forgotten? Go and leave me in peace.”
Lord Adalon's laughter redoubled. “Dead? Oh, no, not dead. Certainly there are many who pray for my demise.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s take another walk, shall we? I do so enjoy our little strolls together. Who knows? You might even find it instructive.”
They walked together across the blasted land, their boots raising puffs of black dust.
Lord Adalon hummed to himself. “I’ve always been fond of music. It can lift the spirit and soothe the soul, but it can also pull men down to murder, madness, and despair. Not that they’ve ever needed much help, of course. I think a little music to accompany our walk would be pleasant. Don’t you?”
He waved his staff. The air shimmered, and a lean, hawk-nosed man with a silver-shot black beard and gray eyes appeared. It was Mattias Comorian, the jongleur from the Northwater inn.
Lord Adalon snapped his fingers. “Play, I say!”
The jongleur obliged.
“Heart of darkness, soul of sin,
a murderer’s bloody grin.
So came the boy to his fate,
dark son of a demon great.”
“I’ve always loved that song,” said Lord Adalon. “Don’t you? No? A pity. I must confess, I’ve never liked the ending. Too inaccurate. How often have you seen a man proclaim the gods in the face of certain death? But, who knows? Perhaps I’ll yet have a chance to write a different ending.”
“Leave me in peace,” said Mazael. “Go away.”
Despite the sun’s glare, the air was cold. Mattias Comorian continued to sing.
“His demon soul within him rose.
He slew and cast down his foes.
Blood stained red his killing blade.
Death and fear his kingdom made.”
“Peace, my son?” said Lord Adalon. “Is that what you want? I’m disappointed in you. Peace is a shelter for the cowardly, a place where weaklings can hide in the shadow of the strong.” He looked at Mazael. “You weren’t born for peace.”
Castle Cravenlock loomed ahead of them, bleak and empty as the rest of the land, its windows black eyes in walls of dead rock.
“The child met his dark father,
before the church’s altar.
‘My dark child’, said the demon.
‘Your glory has now begun’.”
Lord Adalon waved his staff at the castle. “This is where you were born. More, it is where you were conceived. It is where you began. It is where you grew up. And it is where you will embrace your destiny, your true self.”
“This is nonsense,” said Mazael.
“‘I renounce you!’ said the demon child.
‘You lie, you destroy, you defile!
In the name of heaven, get...”
Demonsouled Page 26