by Tod Langley
2
Trapped
The demon watched the macabre scene from atop the black walls and felt only a fragment of remorse. She could hear the boy’s screams, as he fought for his life, but the demon knew it would not be enough: she chose not to help. The demon brushed loose strands of golden hair from her face, letting the biting winds hit her exposed cheeks. She hoped it might cool the anger that boiled beneath her skin.
The demon looked down again at Ferral’s mindless creatures that still tore apart the wounded that had not yet transformed. The dead knew even less of mercy than the demon did; the dead obeyed Ferral with no ability to show concern or hesitation for the innocent.
The dead were as easy to control as any living fanatics; the creatures were manipulated by the dominating will of just one man and obeyed orders regardless of right and wrong—of good and evil. The demon realized, however, that there was one main difference between Ferral’s followers and other zealots in history: the sorcerer’s creatures were too difficult to destroy. Dismembering a single creature took too long, and by the time anyone finished destroying one dead soldier, ten others had taken its place. Unless Ferral was stopped, his followers and his new Deathmarch Army would subjugate the entire continent. Ferral could then focus his powers upon the kingdoms of the Old World. The sorcerer-king would do what no other man had been capable of. Ferral would destroy the world.
The sorcerer had used the demon to create winter storms and control the dead before, but Ferral was becoming more adept at using his new found powers. The deadly scene below the demon, one that had taken place nightly for the past week, was all Ferral’s doing. The sorcerer could use his dark magic to control the dead far beyond his line of sight. His unique brand of fanaticism would spread quickly across Erinia.
Ferral needs me less every day. It is becoming harder to bend the sorcerer to my own will.
“And now Ferral has his own way of controlling the dead,” the demon reminded herself. General Derout was now an automaton through which Ferral could extend his control to regions far beyond the borders of Belarn.
The question is … is the sorcerer doing this to send me a message? the demon wondered. Does he think he no longer needs me?
“I could help the boy,” the demon said, looking down upon the child’s final struggle. ”Ferral would not be pleased.”
Whenever Ferral’s people tried to flee the sorcerer-king became furious and took control of the winds to push people back toward his citadel, back toward the Deathmarch Army. Ferral knew the people would be murdered, but that did not concern him. In life or death, they would serve Ferral and his causes, both religious and personal.
Ferral may believe in Belatarn, but he is increasingly addicted to his new powers. Powers that are making the sorcerer stronger …
The demon decided to wait a little longer before challenging Ferral openly.
“No!” the demon heard the small boy scream again from below her vantage point before the dead swarmed around him, obscuring the boy from her sight. His blood pooled around the feet of the dead creatures, mixing with the blood of those that had already transformed. Ferral had just added another one hundred servants to his Deathmarch Army.
The dark silence surrounded Allisia once again, its oppressive nature strangling the captive princess. The sorcerer-king and his demon had left her, alone and frightened, wondering how long it might be before the next time Ferral came to torment her.
Allisia sat on the edge of her bed trying to understand what had made Ferral’s mood toward her change so drastically. He had walked in smiling, pushing the dusty doors open, letting in much welcomed light, warmth, and fresh air. Despite the extravagant trappings, Ferral liked to ensure Allisia was reminded of her captivity. This time he was in an unusually good mood. He acted rather pleasant in a way that made Allisia sick to her stomach.
Allisia saw the hunger to molest her in his eyes and looked away.
Ferral’s moods changed with the wind. One moment, the sorcerer-king would act as civilized as any ordinary person, but in the next moment, Ferral threatened kingdoms and murdered innocent people. Now, Ferral wanted her as he wanted any other thing not in his possession. The mad man wanted to take Allisia and be the only man to have her. It actually surprised Allisia that Ferral had not tried to take her earlier. Allisia would never allow Ferral to touch her in that way, of course, and she was ready for him to make his move.
It will only be a matter of time, Allisia convinced herself.
Allisia had the knife now but was reluctant to use it. What good would it do to strike him with it? Allisia had seen what Ferral had done to General Derout and the servant girl and thought it better to keep the knife hidden under the blankets. Allisia could reach it quick enough if she needed to defend herself. Or if Ferral threatened Allisia’s purity she could take her own life.
Perhaps, that would be better anyway, Allisia thought, dismally.
“No, he would just bring me back … like the servant girl. There are things worse than death,” Allisia murmured.
Perhaps, Allisia thought, he wants me to give in so that his twisted pleasure will be even greater. And knowing I surrendered to him would make him feel as though he had completely conquered Duellr.
“I’ll kill Ferral before I let that happen … no matter what might happen to me,” Allisia declared.
Ferral had entered her chamber and poured a glass of wine for himself. He seemed at ease and confident, but Allisia knew Ferral’s cruelty could emerge without warning. She patted the long knife under the blanket next to her as the sorcerer spoke casually of his successes to the east.
“Erand is in ruins, its people flee through the snow from my army. Burned, impaled, frozen … they have nowhere to go,” Ferral said. The sorcerer then teased Allisia about his plans to ensure the western kingdoms could not interfere until he was ready to crush them.
“Why are you doing this?” Allisia had asked many times before. She used it as a stalling tactic: Ferral liked to talk about himself.
“I’m not that difficult to figure out, Allisia,” Ferral said. “I’m a man that ardently believes my god calls upon all people to worship him and only him. Those that follow another god shall be shown the error of their ways by the actions of my holy army.”
“There’s only one God, Ferral,” Allisia risked telling him, fearful of an immediate retaliation.
The sorcerer-king smiled at this and paused before saying, “Maybe you should start worshiping my god, then. Your God doesn’t seem very helpful.” Ferral shook his head sadly, treating Allisia as a child too young to comprehend his vision.
“This continent has been influenced by Erand and Duellr for hundreds of years. You could prosper and enjoy life, but,” Ferral suddenly shouted, raising a finger righteously, “only if you followed their customs, their laws, their God. If you wanted to live your life your way, take pride in your own culture and beliefs, you were shunned, neglected.”
Ferral stood then and started to pace. Allisia grew more wary; he typically lost control at times like this.
“Belarnians are a proud people, people banded together loosely by the need for trade and the desire to worship in a different way. The Erandians tell us that our way is wrong, that our way is evil,” Ferral reminded her.
“Who are they to judge us? Who are they to tell us that our culture and religion are less than theirs?” Ferral asked.
She dared not answer him.
“The holiest of my people soon realized that we could not, that we did not, worship the same god. Our god was benevolent to those that were loyal. Belatarn gave us what we needed to survive when Erand and her allies cut us off from the rest of the world. Our god would help us climb out of the desolation that Erand was forcing upon us. Belatarn would help us defeat them and show the whole world that our god was the god.”
Allisia could only shake her head, confused. “How can you think that God wants death? How can you accept that your violent ways are justi
fiable as a holy quest?”
“Don’t you think that your father and his naval forces have killed people before? Isn’t your betrothed, the pitiful excuse for a leader that he is, responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people?” Ferral glared at her.
“They were protecting their people from harm,” Allisia said, pretending to reason with the mad man, feeding his ego in the hopes of staying his hand.
Ferral sneered at Allisia and said, “In that case, I’m only protecting what rightfully belongs to my god.”
Allisia did not understand what Ferral meant. The princess continued their debate, offering honest challenges to Ferral’s points, because that was what the mad man expected, and because that kept him calm. Allisia and Ferral continued like that for half an hour.
A guard entered and handed Ferral a sheaf of parchment. The sorcerer-king paled as he read. Ferral crumbled the parchment in his fists, screaming in fury.
“Make sure the survivor dies slowly,” Ferral shouted at the messenger.
“Sire, the scout is the one who informed us of the fugitive’s location and warned us of the Spirit Folk,” the guard stammered.
“If the scout had done his job, I wouldn’t care about where the Erandian was hiding. Kristian’s head would be stacked along the wall of my throne room!” The menacing look Ferral gave the guard was enough to ensure his command would be carried out. “And bring the demon to my chambers. I’m done with incompetent fools. If the Black Guards can’t do Belatarn’s Will, then I must find another way.”
“But,” the guard mumbled, “they were spirits, magical beings, whose powers were too great for the patrol.”
“Fool,” Ferral shouted. The sorcerer-king raised his hand, pointing at the man. The guard backed away, eyes widening. “They are humans hiding among trees like fairies. People so afraid of the sun they sit under a roof of leaves. They have no magic. They lost their powers centuries ago. Only I command the arts now.” The guard quickly nodded his head in obeisance. Ferral reached out with his power, grabbing hold of the man’s collar with an invisible hand, and dragged him closer. Ferral’s face was close enough that the guard could feel the heat of his king’s fetid breath on his cheek.
“I don’t want the Erandian survivors killed. I want them obliterated. I want no sign of their bodies to ever be found. Now get out!” The guard ran for his life. Ferral picked up the crumbled message as the doors clanged shut and threw it into the fireplace.
Ferral noticed the princess fidgeting out of the corner of his eye.
Ferral sensed Allisia’s heart racing, his new powers made him sensitive to others … he could feel their fear. Ferral scowled at Allisia and felt her worry increase. Allisia breathed heavily trying to keep her emotions in check, but it was too late. Ferral looked her up and down, licking his lips.
“My god has given you to me, Allisia. It’s a sign of his faith in me, that I will purge the world of the non-believers.” Ferral started toward Allisia slowly.
“Belatarn is merciful and benevolent to those that follow his edicts. You will be the first of many beautiful wives, Allisia … wives that Belatarn will give me for establishing new temples and schools devoted to his commandments,” Ferral said.
He reached out a hand toward Allisia’s cheek, but the princess turned away in disgust. Ferral’s smile turned to hatred. Allisia did not know what Ferral would do next.
Just as Ferral was about to make a move toward Allisia, the demon entered the room. “I heard you were looking for me,” the demon said with a slight grin.
Ferral stopped, his fingertips only inches away from Allisia’s face; his hunger for the princess changing into frustration, then anger. Ferral hit her with the back of his hand, not as hard as usual, but the sting would remind Allisia of his control over her.
“Why is it so hard to kill those two fools?” Ferral demanded of the demon. “I am the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Yet, I can’t kill the one man I want killed.”
The demon shrugged. “Our master is not the only power in the universe, Ferral,” the demon replied. Ferral laughed and then glanced over at Allisia, who nursed her swollen lip. The princess still feared the demon and tried to get as far away from the monster as possible.
Ferral knew what Allisia did not, that he was now more powerful than the demon that he had raised. It would only be a matter of time before the demon was no longer needed. And then the demon might become too difficult to control. Ferral would show Allisia who she should fear more—who she should show respect to. Ferral would destroy the demon by his own power or send her back to Hell. He would then make Allisia grovel at his feet and do his bidding as his lover: she was already his slave.
But in some ways, Ferral acknowledged, I still need the demon. She is craftier than any of my advisors.
“What would you do? Tell me what should be done to rid the world of all those that oppose me,” Ferral said.
The demon smiled. “Only when you have rid the earth of those who serve the Pure One,” she hesitated, “can our master become strong enough to enter this world.”
“And how do I accomplish this task?” Ferral asked.
“There is a race older than this continent that lives south of your kingdom. You have dealt with them before.”
“You are speaking of the so called Spirit Folk?” Ferral barked a laugh. “They are nothing more than inbred fools. Perhaps they were great a thousand years ago, but now they are pathetic.”
“Yet they,” the demon continued, “protect the secrets of an ancient world within their citadel. Those secrets are powerful enough to destroy you and your plans. Destroy these people. Destroy every last one of them. Leave no building standing. Ensure nothing remains of them. With their destruction you keep their secrets safe for all eternity and begin to tear down the walls that separate mortals from God’s Kingdom … and our god from this world. He promises to seat you, as his champion, at his side to rule over the pitiful subjects of this world, but only if you succeed where the others have failed him.”
There’s something the demon is not telling me. There’s a reason she wants me to move forward. She’s always had her own agenda, Ferral realized.
“You’ve wanted me to destroy them ever since I brought you here,” Ferral said. “I’ve divided my forces in order to deal with them and the Erandians at the same time, and look what it has accomplished … nothing.”
“That is why you re-created General Derout,” the demon reminded him. “Use your powers to control Derout, and through his body, you will gain greater control over the Deathmarch Army. Kristian cannot discover the same knowledge you now possess. He cannot be allowed to convince the Atlunam to join his cause against you. Use me and Derout to destroy all of your enemies before they have a chance to unite.”
“It would be a glorious battle. A final battle between those that serve Belatarn and those that stand in my way,” Ferral mused. He glanced at the demon and caught her subtle grin.
Ferral wondered whether the demon cared if it was Belatarn or God that won the final battle. He would have to keep a more careful eye upon her.
“I could destroy them. I would then gain enough power to control all things on this continent, just like I control Derout and the servant girl. Belatarn would reward me, and we would rule together,” Ferral said.
“Call him what you wish, Ferral. He has many names, but do not think for one instant that you will ever be allowed to rule with him. He will never share his throne with anyone.”
“Perhaps. It shall all be as Belatarn wills. Maybe our god doesn’t want me to attack them,” Ferral said, intending to provoke her.
The demon’s smug grin vanished.
“At least … not yet,” Ferral added.
Ferral smiled, knowing he could manipulate the demon just like he manipulated everyone else.
“You asked me for my advice and I gave it. Do as you see fit,” the demon said.
“Maybe attacking the warrior cl
ans to the west would be more appropriate,” Ferral suggested.
The demon laughed. “Your pitiful Black Guards can’t even find two Erandians. I seriously doubt they could do anything to the Holtsmen.”
“Bah!” Ferral snarled. “The Black Guards have their uses, but you are right, they are becoming less reliable.” Ferral walked toward the fireplace, absently brushing his beard. Then he turned and smiled. “I’m thinking of my new army, the Deathmarch Army. The mindless creatures see only what I want them to see. They do only what I want them to do … and their numbers are constantly growing, thanks to my storms. Thanks to you.”
The demon’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “What will you do?”
“I shall call a Chura Council, a meeting set in the tradition of the old ways. I shall gather the priests of Belatarn and my generals … you can come too, if you wish. I will let them give me advice, and then I shall unleash my full power,” Ferral announced.
The demon acted as if she did not care about the council and left them. Ferral, too wrapped up in his own delusions, forgot about Allisia. With a distant look in his eyes he followed the demon out of the room.
Allisia lay there, in the corner with her chin on her knees, wiping the tears from her eyes with a tattered sleeve. She sobbed, remembering her father and brother.
“They’re gone,” Allisia reminded herself. “They’re all gone.”
Then, Allisia remembered what Ferral had said. Who was he looking for? Who was out there and still alive that made Ferral so furious? It had to be Kristian, Allisia reminded herself.
The thought consoled the princess little. Allisia knew the only way she would ever escape was on her own. Even if Kristian were a better man, even if Kristian was the kind of man that could really stand up to Ferral, he might still fail.
“Even God has abandoned me,” Allisia whispered. “I’m on my own.”