Descent of Demons Read online

  Morgan snorted in derision. Hot rebellion began to flow through his veins, further strengthening him. Azoroath was hitting every sore nerve.

  "I will not be swayed by deceptions and lies as the council has been," he answered, more aggrieved than he cared to admit.

  "If you will not join us…" Azoroath rose to his full height and reached over his shoulder. He brought forth his sword, letting it hover menacingly. The silver blade glinted dangerously in the firelight. "I could take your head now."

  Morgan pushed the tip away and dragged himself to his feet. The idea of discretion being the better part of valor was completely lost on him, and living to fight another day was barely a fleeting thought in his mind. Azoroath had been dispatched to kill him. Fine. He could accept that. He knew what he'd face when he returned. If not the end, it was only the beginning.

  "You would not kill me that easily," he chided. "It is not your way."

  Considering the weapon in his hand, Azoroath unexpectedly cast it aside. "You are clearly wounded. I'll at least offer you the chance to defend yourself." It was clear by the smirk around his mouth he did not expect the assassin to be much of a challenge.

  "You need not have made the gesture!" Morgan snapped. "It is yet to be seen if you are the one who will be walking away this day."

  Azoroath briefly inclined his head. "We'll see."

  "Yes." Morgan stiffened in anticipation, facing the man intended to be his executioner. The fight was about to commence, and he was in no way ready for it. He was at a distinct disadvantage--recently wounded, his reflexes addled by the threatening migraine. His sole advantage was experience, and that might count for naught. Right arm still aching, he would have to rely on his left to carry the brunt of the action. Azoroath would play on that weakness, automatically going for his infirm side.

  The two began to circle each other, attacker and protector, each waiting for the other to make the vital move that would signal the fight should commence. Azoroath was a large man, easily outweighing him by some thirty-five pounds. His bulk was threatening; he was literally a mass of flesh.

  He is also a man on a mission, Morgan reminded himself. And ready to fight. He'd never been one to back away from a brawl. In fact, he had started more than a few with his razor-sharp tongue and fast fists. However, he was nowhere near top form, and he knew when he didn't have a chance in hell of winning and it would be better to walk away.

  Azoroath was not offering that option. And, in the back of his mind, he didn't really regret that he was probably going to lose. This was bound to be quick.

  "You draw no weapon."

  "I will if I have need of it."

  "You will. Your death will be a sad waste, but no one shall mourn you."

  "I expected no less," Morgan shot back. "But they would be mourning prematurely."

  "You should give up now, save yourself more pain."

  Azoroath struck first, swiping a fist toward Morgan, a teasing move to test his reflexes.

  Morgan ducked the larger man's arm and came up, fist clenched. He sent it flying straight toward Azoroath's face, something he knew the larger man wouldn't expect. He struck squarely, soundly, shattering Azoroath's nose. The wizard's blood spattered in warm droplets.

  Before Azoroath could react, Morgan laced his hands together and brought them crashing down into the base of the larger man's skull. He bent double, even as Morgan's right knee hammered up into his groin. Brought up sharply by the pain, Azoroath stumbled back and lost his balance, crashing into the chess table, shattering the fragile wood and sending chess pieces flying. Gasping for breath, he spastically arched his back and clutched his throat, unable to avoid the hard kick Morgan delivered to his ribcage.

  "There is a little fight left in the old dog yet," Azoroath gasped, swallowing a mouthful of his own blood. "You're not going easily to your death."

  "I still have a few tricks," he taunted, drawing in a deep breath to clear his head.

  It was obvious the blows had unsettled Azoroath. He was hurt, he was embarrassed, and moreover, he had a job to carry out. He reached for the dagger at his waist. No more taunting. No more testing. Roaring angrily, he lunged, an enraged hulk.

  Everything after that was a blur, the next moments chaotic. Morgan grabbed Azoroath's wrist and snapped it downward, tearing cartilage. He bent over it, gripping it and coming down hard with his full weight. Azoroath howled, dropping his weapon, twisting in a defensive move to slam his shoulder into Morgan's body, upsetting his balance.

  Knocked flat on his back, Morgan could not roll away fast enough to avoid the crushing impact of Azoroath's knee into his chest. The blow stunned him. Bringing his leg up, he reached for, and found, his dagger. Eyes wide, face flushed, Azoroath saw his move and caught Morgan's arm with his uninjured hand. The wizard wrenched Morgan's wrist hard, payback for the pain he'd inflicted almost to the breaking point. Hand going numb, Morgan let go. The weapon skittered out of his reach.

  Dammit, he thought. You are on your own now.

  Struggling to regain the winning position, he came up hard across Azoroath's back with his leg. The solid jolt had little effect; and even as he hit a second time, Azoroath swung his fist and delivered a full facial blow. Head smacking the floor, Morgan saw blinding darkness, felt the spurt of blood from his nose when Azoroath hit a second time, putting all his wrath behind his weight.

  You are not winning, he had time to think as another hard slam stole his breath anew. His head ached; his face stung. He was in pain. A lot of pain. He swayed, close to losing consciousness.

  Fighting the black void floating before his eyes, Morgan managed to knock Azoroath aside. Pushing himself up, he again kicked out in an attempt to topple the larger man. He angled his body to the left, jamming his elbow into Azoroath's stomach. If he could just get Azoroath down again, he could gain the advantage, maybe even walk away alive.

  He lunged up, waiting for another attack, prepared to fend it off. Anger was his sole motivator. Blinking his eyes against stinging sweat, he momentarily lost his focus.

  It was his undoing.

  Azoroath rolled over onto his back, instinctively raising his legs together and delivered a hard double kick. The force caught Morgan squarely in the chest and sent him flying. Reeling back against the wall, he hit hard, smacking his head, knocked nearly insensible. It was the chance his enemy had been waiting for.

  Azoroath snatched up the nearest weapon. Staggering to his feet, he sprang forward and plunged the dagger into Morgan's abdomen, just below the ribcage. When he pulled the blade away, blood spurted from the narrow wound, cascading downward in a crimson rivulet.

  "Xavier may only wish to warn you of the danger that awaits you here," he hissed. "But I am of the mind that it would be better if you were dead. His displeasure, I am sure, will not last long. As he makes plans, I have my own."

  He swiftly delivered one more stab before planting the third firmly in the assassin's chest, twisting the sharp steel viciously so it would penetrate the ribs and destroy the heart.

  "I bind you unto death, assassin. Thy hand cannot take out thy blade. It shall stay there until thy body rots."

  Morgan clenched his eyes shut. Shock whitened his face. It took a few moments for him to realize he had been fatally stuck. Silence…the beating of his heart, tearing itself apart against the steel. He felt the cold first--it made him shiver. Then the dampness, the sweat drenching him.

  He opened his eyes and lowered his head, as if disbelieving that he had been mortally wounded, realizing, perhaps for the first time, the enormity of what had just occurred. His hand shuttered open and shut, but he did not have the strength left to fight the blade and its invasion of his body. He set his teeth against the agony.

  "That old fool is soon to fall," Azoroath panted. He let his menacing fist drop. "It is time for a younger man to take his place, lead our people into the prosperity the mortal world so enjoys."

  "We were not meant to be gods," Morgan gasped, pressing his open palm
to his stomach. He paused, forcing his breath to come evenly. The blood was coming faster than he expected, and his already weak system was not responding. He'd reached the limit of damage he could survive.

  Unless the blood stops soon...

  But he wasn't sure he wanted it to stop. You finally got what you wanted. It will not take long.

  He reached up with a shaking hand to wipe away the blood trickling from his mouth. At sight of the crimson that stained his fingertips, a fleeting smile crossed his lips. An unexpected laugh broke from his throat, but there was no humor in the sound. He shuddered, a convulsive shiver that seemed to tear through his entire being. Pain twisted him at intervals. He held himself grimly upright until he could no longer resist the stupor overtaking him.

  Unable to remain standing, he slid down the wall. Blood spread over the stone floor. He saw it. It was his. His eyes slipped wearily shut, and he felt no emotion except muffled relief. He wanted to stay in this safe haven of darkness forever. He was vaguely aware of Azoroath claiming his own fallen weapons, then disappearing as silently as he had arrived.

  Lethargy crept over him, and it seemed the most desirable thing in the world to do would be to sleep. Loss of consciousness was a slow, creeping chill as the beating of his pulse began to falter.

  Across the chamber, the door slid shut on silent hinges…

  Chapter Six

  Ilya slipped into the sorcerer's chambers on feet as silent as a cat's paws. She hurried to the Xavier's bedside and bowed reverently, even though she was aware Xavier could not clearly see her.

  "It is time for your cleansing, Lord," she breathed, pale face flushed. "Your baths have been readied."

  He nodded, pleased. Everything had been prepared as he commanded. He gave his attention to the prowling woman who acted as his eyes and ears.

  "My betrothed, she is to come?"

  A flash of jealousy raged behind Ilya's eyes, and her face was briefly enveloped in hate. Afraid her reaction would be detected, she averted her head toward her feet.

  "Yes, Lord," she said in docile subservience.

  "Good. I must prepare for her."

  Xavier rose from his bed. He stumbled on legs still unused to his weight. Ilya stepped to his side and offered her shoulder. He drew himself erect at once--weaknesses were not to be long tolerated, neither in himself nor in others. Still, he did allow her to lead him. Walking slowly, she maneuvered him over a threshold into apartments radiating a comfortable ambiance.

  The chamber was immense, its illumination serene, warm. Lavish with artifacts of bygone ages, it lay under an arched ceiling lost above their heads. Marble pilasters buttressed walls covered in multicolored tiles of cream and gold. Persian carpets woven of silk were spread across the floors, their pattern of Ouroborous, the dragon devouring its own tail, imaginatively conceived. Furnishings crafted by expert hands, utensils fashioned from gold and alabaster, materials woven by hand upon the loom--the spacious room was designed for comfort.

  The floor was a creamy rich marble scattered with tiny bits of crystal. The walls, too, were white, with a strange glitter about them, like moonlight on a snow-covered plain. Lit by fire-warmed hearths and the many candles in the candelabra, this harbor seemed rife with serenity, but its harmony was false. Fear was a constant undercurrent.

  Across the vast area, a monkey-like animal sat on to its elaborately carved perch, sharp claws dug into the wood. Its movements were clumsy, its stubby hind legs shorter than its forearms. Chattering a string of nonsense words, the demonic homunculus scooped with three-taloned paws bits of leftover meat from a clay bowl. Its sharp beak shredded the morsels.

  Xavier removed his hand from Ilya's shoulder with a gesture of impatience.

  "Attend me."

  Three scantily clad women came to guide him toward the sunken baths, where he would partake of a cleansing neglected for days. He stood with his arms extended while they helped him disrobe. Then, putting aside his clothes with great reverence, the slave women helped Ilya undress. Naked, every bone in her gaunt frame was revealed. She made no attempt to cover her nudity, instead directing him down five wide steps leading into a waist-deep pool. Settling into the warm water soothed his aching bones.

  "You serve me well, Ilya."

  "Yes, master," she murmured. "I try to prove my worth."

  "I have not an acolyte among you who is capable of succession," Xavier rumbled. "All my women have proven worthless."

  It was a cruel taunt, meant to wound. At one time, he had enjoyed relaxing in a hot pool, his every want attended to by his wife. The bath usually led to long evenings of lovemaking, in the hope of conceiving a legitimate child to rule at his side. Ilya was merely one of many disposable mistresses he had taken through the ages, her ancestors among those captured in the last culling of humans from the mortal realm before the portals closed.

  After Nisidia's death, he'd not taken another wife. Instead, he satisfied himself with his ty-rai--handmaidens--to fetch and carry, as well as perform for him in any sexual manner he chose. When he was done with the women, he sacrificed them to the greater enhancement of the Dragon without conscience. To him, the mortal spawn were less than animals.

  Ilya nodded, averting her gaze. "I meant nothing by my words."

  She moved behind him to massage his shoulders. Xavier smacked his lips, pleased he had put her in her place. A second woman joined them, and began to cleanse his body with a soothing wash of soap-root and chamomile.

  He let Ilya attend to him, settling back to enjoy his bath. Though he had tortured her sisters to death some years ago, he kept her because she simpered at his feet like a mongrel hound, begging to be accepted. She had no great power, but she was intelligent, learning to participate in rites and rituals with astonishing adeptness. He found it amusing to taunt her, to keep her in utter submission.

  The women rinsed the soap from his skin. Chortling, he gestured for the slaves to help dry and dress him. They hurried to clothe him in loose-fitting white pantaloons under a white tunic before enfolding him into a crimson robe. The colors were deliberately chosen; white for purity, crimson for power. The full-sleeved robe bore symbols woven in gold braid, symbols of his magical heritage. Lastly, soft slippers of leather were laced around his ankles.

  When he was dressed, he settled into his place of honor, an elaborate throne fashioned of bronze overlaid with hammered sheets of gold. Dressed now in simple robes of gray, Ilya took her place behind his chair, ready to serve should she be needed.

  Despite the rest of the last few days, he grew weary. His lips felt strangely numb. The potion used to dull the pain of his wounds was beginning to wear off, and the ache would soon become unbearable. Although nothing could be done to save his hand, there were ways to overcome physical frailties.

  I must not give in to weakness, he thought. Megwyn's to come and bring with her the healer, Duk-cho. The old man knows ways to keep a body functioning beyond its limitations. Perhaps he can even save my eye from permanent impairment.

  The need for revenge made him desperate to prolong his life.

  A half-naked man bowed before him. "She is here."

  The sorcerer's broad nostrils flared. "Bring her to me."

  Megwyn walked around the eunuch, pointedly ignoring him, sweeping in like a goddess of light. A woman of commanding presence despite her diminutive stature, she entered the chamber as though it were her own. Indeed, she had come to know it well since she and her brother's bitterest enemy had formed their alliance.

  Swathed in a gossamer gown of white silk, wrapped in a cape of coal-black mink, Megwyn held her head high. Taking her time in loosening her cape, she intently surveyed the sorcerer. With equal slowness, as he did everything, he rose from his chair, offering a bow of respect to her as a guest in his domain.

  She flicked her hand in a gesture for him to resume his seat. "Have you word of my brother?"

  "He has left the Raider camps. He can be taken at any time."

  "His return has caused
much dissent within the council," she replied, her countenance becoming a little less composed. "There are some who now question the wisdom of a truce with your legion. I have had to do much talking to keep the peace."

  "You have done well in convincing them this cessation of war is for the good of Sclyd. They are not blind to the famine. They see the needs of the people, how Sclydians need resources from the mortal realm."

  "If Morgan gets to the council, to the members who are doubting this alliance--there are some, I believe, who would follow him."

  "They do not want war again," he insisted. "You need keep up appearances only a little while longer. Soon we will have no further need of them."

  "Morgan needs to be dealt with. Quickly." She grew pensive. "We must have a care, though. He is unstable, at best. There is no predicting how this exile has affected his mind."

  "I have made plans to take care of your twin."

  "Oh?"

  Rock-like and patient, Xavier settled back. "You may not think it wise," he said, "but I am willing to offer him one chance to join us."

  "You are?" Her voice quivered with dumb surprise. It was clear this was a move she had not expected. She toyed with a silver bracelet on her wrist. "Why?"

  "The war is over," he reminded her. "We are at peace."

  "You have never felt that way before," she pointed out, her tone one of suspicion,

  "Morgan, too, turned from the council," he replied. "He honors no allegiance to them. I have sent Azoroath to make him an offer."

  "When?"

  "Yesterday."

  "And your message?"

  Xavier did not need two good eyes to imagine her blue ones sparking with pique. He could almost hear the cogs in her head turning. He envisioned in his mind the careful pulling of each string.

  They are but puppets.

  "I've given Morgan a choice," he revealed. "To show I can be merciful, I'm offering absolution if he'll join us."

  Megwyn's mouth drew down in a deep frown, as if she resented him going behind her back to make a decision that would vastly affect her. Someone had to blink first in the showdown. She blinked. "And if he doesn't accept?"