Descent of Demons Read online

  Except for his silent form, his rooms were deserted. He needed time alone, demanded it. Because his senses were so highly attuned, he had at first been unable to bear the presence of those attending him--the psychic noise was painful. He heard it all: their breathing, the beat of their hearts, even the flow of blood in their veins, unnaturally aware of the energies that animated their bodies.

  You survive by taking the pain, turning it into strength, he reminded himself. What my enemies have done to me shall be turned back upon them tenfold. Those who have doubted will soon be believers.

  Because he had lost so much, he was determined he would again bring down the wall between the natural and the supernatural. For his crimes against mortality, he had been stripped of his position and cast out from his cult. A devastating judgment, this was a fate worse than death. He was a disgrace to his heritage and undesirable among his own people. Because he was born in Sclyd and possessor of a second bloodline, no one could entirely deprive him of his occult knowledge nor the sorcery he capably wielded.

  The Council of Witches.

  How he despised the congregation of twelve entities who appointed themselves the keepers of occult justice. It was their belief that those of the occult should keep their magic to the shadows of Sclyd. They did allow the right of survival through sacrificial worship or hunger, but they did not sanction dominating and stifling a weaker race.

  Yet he had defied them--and survived. It had not taken him long to topple his successor and resume leadership of the cult of Ouroborous as its Arch-priest.

  Soon, very soon, he vowed, I will have my reckoning with the council.

  Since he could not yet see clearly, only shapes and shadows, he'd spent his quiet hours in a deeply meditative state. He allowed his thoughts to stray toward the studies he'd pursued before the three worlds returned to alignment. He had a thirst for knowledge and the power that was knowledge. It was only right he should devote his time to his research as he grew stronger. He needed to prepare.

  What he had discovered of late was an intriguing thing, one he was eager to follow up on. He was not sure, but he believed he alone possessed the key to a lost phenomenon that could transform him from a mere immortal to one eternal.

  The Scrolls of Cachaen.

  They spoke of a time only dragons remembered. This set of writings had been carefully gathered by an obscure sect of wizards devoted to gaining knowledge belonging only to the ancient gods. Legend decreed the scrolls held the secret of generating astral energies into this physical world. The mastery of such an enigma allowed them to grant carnal form to netherworld spirits conceived of their conjuring. With such animation at their beck, it was believed the brotherhood could open the gates to the core energies of creation itself.

  Realizing the great dangers inherent in their dabbling, that curiosity had given them knowledge that could bring annihilation, the brotherhood receded into a xenophobic society as a self-imposed penance. History agreed the dozen rolls of script were to be entrusted to the monk Erabris. So that Erabris would not be tempted by the great power in the sacred writings, he was euthanized and entombed with the scrolls at his hand. Forevermore would the grimoires be lost, for the location of the tomb was never spoken aloud.

  This narrative, some pieces of it resembling actual truth, was dear to Xavier's heart. He coveted the power of lost knowledge and dreamt of the day when he would rediscover it. That day seemed close now, closer than he'd once believed possible.

  At great risk, he had invaded the Cachaen monasteries to search for references. The Cachaens were meticulous record keepers and, long having renounced violence, were targeted by predators. Xavier had brought much destruction and torture to them during his attempts to unveil the resting-place of the scrolls.

  His search had proven fruitless.

  The Cachaens who had attended the actual entombment were long dead. Those remaining preferred to die rather than break their vow of silence. With malice did the sorcerer cast aside their dead bodies and turn his attention to their libraries chronicling Sclydian history. He discovered most of the volumes were useless.

  "Until now," he murmured. "Now I see where I have been blind. My past folly was in seeking cryptic leads when simplicity would suffice."

  For several centuries, he had held in his keeping a collection of manuscripts he believed unimportant. What a fool he'd been to ignore the tattered journals of Cachaen ceremonial rites, shoving the books away with other stolen writings. Retrieved years later from damp recesses, the books were decaying, barely more than yellowing sheets of animal skin pressed between rotting sheathes of leather.

  Through the course of his reading, the books became scattered helter-skelter. All were eventually shoved aside to make room for the smaller, less impressive batch of pages beckoning for attention. With them propped against the base of a massive candelabrum lit by eight spiraling red candles, he had bent close to translate a series of narrative passages ripped from the heart of an ancient funeral tome.

  The stained pages reeked with the stench of noxious herbs employed to preserve the faded writing. The potion had done much to protect the parchment, but not even magic could forestall forever the decay of time on a tome whose materials where composed of the earth itself.

  He made slow progress through the moldering pages. Most were illegible. Many were torn in half, leaving only ragged edges at the end of a passage. However, the clumsy scrawl revealed enough to awaken a spark in the depths of his brain. He could hardly believe his good fortune when words, some barely discernable, came together to form a glimpse of a legend shrouded in mystery and deception. He could easily recall from memory lines scratched completely through the thin parchment, lines that spoke of Erabris and his sacrifice:

  Sacrifice for guardianship must be a soul untainted by temptation. Erabris is chosen and begins the ceremony that shall redeem us in the eyes of the gods. Quickly does poison freeze Erabris' blood and still the beating of his heart. We brothers round him cleanse and anoint a body that can know no resurrection, wrap him in a shroud of virgin white. He is laid in a surround of stone. With him rest the truths of creation. No more shall we seek beyond ourselves. Our minds were not ready for that which did come.

  There, the words ended. The rest of the page was torn away.

  No longer, though, were his thoughts focused on the words translated from the funeral tome. Instead, his recollection of the past skimmed back to the days when he was young, his visage unscored by trials and battle. His mind was seeking then, grasping to learn and to understand all about the cult he was born to serve. He eagerly delved into the lures of the forbidden, reveling in the power ritual and worship produced. And lamenting, cursing as did all dark disciples, at the loss of the Cachaen scrolls, the keys to eternity's gates.

  Xavier lifted his decomposing hand. Under the bandages, the bones of his fingers were beginning to emerge as bits of burnt flesh fell away. He was mending, but slowly. He silently cursed his weak shell, infuriated that complete regeneration of the physical self was beyond him. Although he had lived through fourteen centuries, he continued to age, however decelerated the process. His spells would soon be useless on his damaged body unless he discovered new sources to supplement his waning magic.

  The Dragon god was frugal with worshipers who fell into disfavor through repeated failure. To recover the scrolls would guarantee his return to triumph, except the pages did not reveal where the tomb of Erabris was located. There were no more lines of text, nor could he find more pages. The answer was not within the writings.

  A sense of utter desolation washed over him. Would Ouroborous forever hold the scrolls from his reach or, worse, reveal them to the eyes of another? Surely not. Since his discovery, he had begun to have strange dreams, visions he believed to be oblique clues to where the scrolls might rest. As with most dreams, he could only glimpse, but not completely identify, scenes from a very ancient time.

  The secret of where the scrolls rest is concealed in the folds of the p
ast. Unfold it, and their hiding place will be revealed. Secrets are never completely lost, only temporarily misplaced. There are ways to overcome all obstacles. When I can see clearly once more, I will begin the work again. If Ouroborous is generous, the true location of the scrolls will be revealed. Such a precious gift will no doubt have to be paid for with a mortal sacrifice--a young one, untainted by sins of the flesh. Humans are good for little else…

  The opening of heavy bronze doors broke into his thoughts. His forehead furrowed a little, not with rage but annoyance--he had been deep in contemplation. By the heavy treads on the hard stone, he knew the identity of the person who had arrived. The man who had entered his chambers was expected. He turned his head and gave a ceremonial nod to show he acknowledged the presence of his bria-thar, or low cenobite of the third caste.

  "Azoroath." Lifting his hand in welcome, he spoke in a firm, distinct tone.

  Azoroath stepped forward. He embraced the sorcerer's hand and knelt briefly, not quite going down on one knee; they were bound, servant and master, to the collective cause of serving Ouroborous.

  Heavy of build and muscular, well over six feet tall, his height seemed to stretch on endlessly. Set on a thick neck, his large head was shaved completely bald, save for a thin strip of hair at the nape of his neck. He wore the Dragon's tattoo of ownership. A more elaborate symbol was branded above his right eye, just above the brow, marking him as holding a sacred rank a step higher than the Jansi drones, whose only function was to fight and die. High forehead, aquiline nose bearing flaring nostrils and a sharp, jutting chin finished his severe face. Overhung with heavy brows and spaced unnaturally far apart, his eyes were a strange unsettling shade of pink--not a gentle, soft color but hard and glassy, variegated with slivers of crimson. His mouth was a slash, smiling and cruel, like a wolf's. Of an indeterminate age, he dressed in trousers, a simple short-sleeved undershirt, tunic slashed to the waist and leather boots. A broadsword was strapped to his back, a short dagger tucked into the sash at his waist.

  "I have news," he said with grave courtesy

  The sorcerer drew away his hand. "Good. You have done as I asked?"

  A nod. "Yes, Lord. My men have been watching."

  "What say you…" The lines around Xavier's mouth tightened, then relaxed. "…about Morgan?"

  "My scouts have sent word that the assassin is weak. He can be had now that he has taken a horse and left the Raider camps." His hand strayed toward his weapon. "Just say the word, and you shall have his head."

  "Stay your anticipation," Xavier advised. "There is yet time."

  "This watching, the waiting," Azoroath countered. "Why risk giving an enemy time to recover?"

  "Risk it?" The sorcerer laughed; then he hastened to dismiss his acolyte's misgivings by revealing what he had in mind. "I am risking nothing. In fact, I have a task for you, one that must be managed with the greatest care."

  A look of doubt washed across Azoroath's expressive features. He quickly hid it by bowing his head in acceptance. "Then…I am honored you choose me."

  "Here is what I wish," the sorcerer said, licking bloodless lips. "You will carry a message to the assassin who has done this to me."

  Azoroath's impassive expression twisted again briefly, cynically.

  "A message, Lord?" It was clear by his tone the prospect dismayed him. "Is he not a thorn in your side, one that should be immediately plucked?"

  "Are you questioning my judgment?" Xavier demanded, peeved. Azoroath had a habit of overstepping himself.

  "Of course not, Lord," Azoroath acceded. "Forgive my impertinent words."

  "Here is what I wish of you," the sorcerer continued. "You are to say, in my name, that the witches' council and I now have a truce for the common good of Sclyd."

  "Is such a move wise?"

  Xavier's upraised hand commanded silence. His raw voice rose, adding a layer of harsh remonstrance.

  "Hear me out!" He paused to gather his thoughts; then he went on as if Azoroath had not interrupted. "He knows our world is close to becoming extinct, desperate. Tell him that all we seek is survival, a right even the council cannot deny. He has been away a long time. Things have changed on both sides. Say that we wish to understand the mortal realm, how best to use its resources to benefit our world. In that, he would prove most valuable."

  Azoroath broke his unwilling silence and said heavily, "Ego-stroking words, indeed, but I hardly believe he will be of the mind to cooperate. He will not easily…ah…forgive the death of his mate."

  A short space of silence passed. Xavier barely managed to subdue his irritation. He might be temporarily blinded, but he was neither stupid, nor stricken dumb. His hold over his people might be a shaky one, but it was one he was determined to rectify. Soon.

  "As I have not forgiven the death of Nisidia. In that, we are even," he said. "But listen. If Morgan refuses--and he will--wound him. Badly. But do not kill him."

  "Do not kill him?" Azoroath repeated, as if disbelieving the words.

  "You heard me."

  "I…don't understand."

  "I am counting on you to show him his weaknesses."

  "I would advise you not to tempt him," the adept hastened to say. Then with a restrained tone that gave emphasis to his words, he added, "The assassin is like a scorpion. Poke him enough, and he will strike back. He can be a powerful enemy when provoked."

  "Trust me when I say I know what I am doing." Sensing Azoroath's hesitation, Xavier explained. "My legion is strong, and after a long war, we are at peace. Personal vendettas aside, an attack would be unprovoked and, more importantly, unsupported.

  "Remember, he was once backed with the power of twelve other justices. He no longer possesses that since he turned from the council. He is an outlaw, and his allies are presently very few. Because the balance of power is shifting to my advantage again, I can afford the luxury of a little cat-and-mouse. I relish his return. I have waited a long time for my revenge. I have plans…many plans."

  Collecting himself, Azoroath rested his hand on the weapon at his side.

  "I hear your words of wisdom." He made a sign. "You are truly the wise one, Lord."

  "Go now, at once." Xavier gave a gesture of dismissal.

  The acolyte inclined his head in a brief nod. "I will do as you say."

  Moving with effortless, confident grace, the towering being strode across the chamber. The doors opened a second time to allow his exit.

  Chapter Five

  Morgan dismounted from his borrowed horse. The animal snorted and pawed the ground, nervous, as though it sensed it had come into a bad place. He put a hand on the animal's neck, a steady stroke to calm it.

  His long ride had been a chilling one. The mountain winds lashed out at the landscape as though to rip the earth out from under the horse's hooves. A storm was brewing in the skies above, and he was ill-equipped to weather the elements. He had taken no extra supplies, not even a change of clothing.

  Not that he felt the cold hammering against his pale skin. Unspeakably weary, he had forced himself to go on, determined to give in neither to the uncooperative environment nor his own dogged tiredness. Hours ago his body had gone numb. Regeneration was trying to set in, heal his wounds, but he was fighting his need for rest. Only sheer will and determination moved him.

  Letting go of the horse's reins, he gave it a firm slap on the rump. The horse bolted into an immediate run, as though chased by the hounds of hell. He watched it gallop off into the distance. He had no need of it now. The stallion would be found and reclaimed by the Raider scouts. He'd already pushed chance by leaving the safety of Rutola's camp, but there was a great need within him to return to this place.

  He walked up a crumbling flight of thirty steps carved into stone. His legs seemed made of lead; he had to force himself to put one foot in front of the other, keep going forward. These led to an open courtyard, its six pillars and sagging roof none too stable under the merciless erosion of the mists. He was too dazed to notice that it
was darkening into a gloomy gray around him as night descended.

  He looked up warily, contemplating how long before the whole mass crashed down to block the entrance. He reached to touch one of the pillars. Bits of marble turned to dust beneath his fingertips.

  "Has it come to this?" he whispered. "Nothing but ruin?" As unwelcoming as the remnants were, it was here. And, now, so was he. Still, he hesitated, unwilling to make the next move.

  Shaking his head over the deterioration, he moved on, stepping over a deep crevasse, mindful that a fall could seriously injure him. He must take care not to twist a leg in the jagged slices rending the rock.

  He crossed the courtyard toward the castle. It ended at a second set of stone steps. These led up to an arched set of Celtic-designed wrought iron doors. Twelve feet in height and nearly as wide, they had been designed and created long ago by artisans of an era long past. Set high above the doors was a single stained-glass window. Beautiful, yet savage was what he considered the lions emblazoned in the glass. It amazed him the mural had not been broken through the years of the sanctuary's abandonment.

  Skirting around the enormous stone girth of the structure, he observed the condition of the outer walls. Here, too, was damage from the encroaching mists. Entropy had permeated the foundation. The disintegration had begun, and gaping cracks were visible from the foundation to the dome. Misty fingers dug at the openings, giving the impression the exterior was being torn apart by giant phantom hands.

  It was only the beginning of the dissolution. Soon the marbh saol, a plant-like virus traveling on the mists that settled across the land at night, would take root and begin its corrosive spread. Once that happened, nothing could be done to stop its invasive rot. Slowly but surely the dead zones were progressing, cutting an ever-widening swath of sterility across the land.