Demon Lord IV - Lord of Shadows Page 7

  Kayos leant forward and patted Bane's cheek. "Come on, come on. Time to wake up now."

  The plump, middle-aged high priestess, who had come to pay homage to Kayos upon learning of his presence, stared at Bane, her expression a mixture of wonder and loathing. Shevra knew how she felt. How could someone so beautiful be evil? Black mages often used their looks to seduce women, then tortured or sacrificed them when they grew bored. Even with their reputation, women could not resist their charms, and she could see why. Black sorceresses were just as bad, and just as irresistible, but much rarer. The girl who sat beside Bane, holding his hand in both of hers, was obviously in love with him. It shone in her eyes as she gazed down at him, and Shevra wondered what she was to him. The older man also looked concerned and sad, and he bore a resemblance to Bane.

  Bane had not so much as a twitched an eyelid, and Kayos was clearly worried. He had used his healing power again to assure himself that Bane was completely healed, but apparently he was. At least an hour had passed since their arrival and Bane's healing. Shevra was refreshed after a quick warm bath and a hearty meal of thick broth and fresh bread, which Patrin had shared, although he had declined a bath. The priestesses had given her a pale brown acolyte's robe to wear, since her grey dress was torn and filthy. Patrin had found a long curtain rail to use as a staff, and many of the priestesses had armed themselves with kitchen knives or sticks of firewood. They stood around the white flame in the chapel, ready to protect it.

  A crash came from the corridor, followed by a scream, and Kayos looked up with a frown. The high priestess hurried to the door, and Shevra followed her. The corridor led directly to the chapel, and she could see the altar from the doorway. Two men stood in the corridor, one clad in black, the other a dirty soldier who walked towards the chapel like an automaton. Am acolyte had dropped a flask of water and fled to join her sisters in the chapel, causing the crash and scream. Shevra flung a glance at Kayos.

  "They're here."

  "A black mage?"

  "Yes. And another man."

  Kayos rose and walked towards her, and she stepped from his path. The high priestess also stepped aside as he brushed past her, heading for the mage. He vanished as the mage glanced up the passage at her, then started towards her. Shevra stepped back, but the mage only took three strides before he stopped, his eyes widening. White fire ignited on his shoulder and swept over him, engulfing him in a mantle of pure flame, a glimmering blue nimbus edging it. He gave a choked cry and fell backwards, clawing at his throat as if someone was strangling him. Kayos reappeared beside him, gazing down at him. The mage writhed and thrashed, his lips turning blue as he choked and gaped. He struggled to breathe, holding out his hands to Kayos in a pleading gesture. The Grey God turned and walked back to the room, his expression shuttered.

  Shevra's stomach clenched as she watched the warlock's struggles lessen until he lay still, and the white fire winked out. She glanced at Kayos, who sat beside Bane again.

  "Is he dead?"

  He nodded, not looking at her. "I hate killing. Mostly, I cannot. Only mortals who use the dark power."

  Her eyes flicked to Bane. "Like him?"

  "Yes."

  "But you wouldn't.."

  Kayos raised his eyes to meet hers, their silver gaze piercing. "He is my son."

  "I didn't know light gods could kill at all."

  Shevra turned to gaze down the corridor as a ruckus started in the chapel, where the soldier had reached the wall of priestesses and began to push his way through them. At first he thrust them aside, and they tried to hold him back, but then he started beating them with his fists. They endeavoured to pin his arms, but he seemed to possess inhuman strength, hurling them aside.

  The warrior and Patrin tried to reach the man, but the crowd of priestesses blocked their path. Several were knocked down with pained yelps, others started to hit the soldier with their fists. Still he forged ahead, apparently immune to pain, and a few brought their weapons into play, bashing him with pots and faggots. Even so, he did not stop, although he stumbled under the blows, and blood seeped from his hair. Bile stung Shevra's throat, and she turned away, glancing at Kayos, who had buried his face in his hands.

  "Tell them to kill him," he muttered. "He will not stop until he is dead."

  Shevra gulped and ran down the corridor to the chapel. The man staggered and reeled, his face covered in blood, his eyes wide and wild.

  "Kill him!" she cried, and many of the women shot her disgusted, incredulous looks. "Kayos orders it."

  The priestesses hesitated, their faces twisted with pity and horror, then two stepped up and stabbed the man with long kitchen knives. He fell to his knees, blood running from the wounds in his chest and back, still yearning towards the white flame, then fell face down and lay still.

  Shevra went to a window and leant out to vomit. The blood splattered priestesses ran out, some to be sick as well, she suspected, others to change their clothes or pray for their souls. A few, who had not taken part in the scrimmage, remained to guard the flame, averting their eyes from the dead man. Patrin came over to her and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder as she huddled next to the wall, a hand over her mouth.

  "Are you all right?"

  "No!"

  He patted her back. "It's horrible, I know. Even though I've seen plenty of it, it still turns my stomach."

  "Is that supposed to make me feel better? I'm not ashamed to be sickened by it."

  "Nor should you be."

  "He was from our camp, one of your men."

  He nodded. "I don't know his name, but I recognised him."

  Shevra brushed past him and ran down the passage to Bane's room, needing to be in his presence again. Somehow it was his presence that she yearned for, not Kayos', although the Grey God's was serene and comforting, Bane's brought her more security. Kayos still sat on the bed, his head in his hands. He looked up when she came in.

  "He will send more," he stated. "And we will have to kill them."

  "Couldn't you have saved him, Lord?"

  "No. He was under a geas, nothing could have stopped him. If you had tied him up, he would have chewed through the ropes. He would have chewed through his own arm."

  "You can't lift a geas?"

  "Not a dark one. He could have." He nodded at Bane.

  She sank down on the chair, gazing at the comatose dark god. "When will he wake, Lord?"

  "I do not know, but until he does, everything is going to keep going horribly wrong."

  Just then Bane's eyelids flickered, and he groaned softly. The girl who kept vigil beside him tensed, her eyes brightening with hope as she glanced at Kayos, who leant over him, scanning his face and shaking his shoulder.

  "Yes, Bane. Come on, wake up."

  Shevra held her breath as Bane's jaw clenched, and his eyes flicked to and fro behind their lids. He groaned again, then his lips parted, and he whispered, "Shrea."

  Kayos' expression became dismayed. "No. Not Shrea."

  Bane's brows drew together. "Shrea."

  The Grey God bowed his head. "No."

  "Who's Shrea?" Shevra asked.

  "A blue mage. If she dies..."

  "Can't you help her?"

  "I could, if not for Vorkon. If she is in danger it can only mean that one of his minions has found her. If I go to her, he will be informed and come for me."

  "You could bring her here, like you did Bane."

  He gazed at her sadly. "If I do, Vorkon will wonder what she was doing there, and then he might..."

  "What?"

  "It is better that you do not know." He looked pensive. "But I could..." He paused. "Syrin!"

  Shevra almost fell off her chair as a glowing figure stepped from the air. The huge white wings were folded on her back, and she gazed at Kayos with an unreadable expression, her hands folded before her. The blonde girl, whose silence was starting to bother Shevra, stared at the angel with wide eyes, as did the older man.

  "You need my help, great Kay
os?" Syrin asked in a musical voice.

  He frowned at her. "Yes, and it is no easy task."

  She smiled coyly, her eyes bright. "Ask then."

  "Help Shrea. You know where she is. Protect her."

  The angel tilted her head. "From what?"

  Kayos waved his hand, and an Eye appeared before him. He gazed into it, his expression becoming bleak, and Syrin's eyes widened. Kayos looked up at her.

  "Your nemesis."

  "You ask too much."

  The Grey God stood up. "Defend her, Syrin. Be an avenging angel."

  "An Avenger," Syrin breathed, apparently entranced by the idea, much as it frightened her.

  "Yes. Go, hurry. She has not much time."

  "I -"

  "Go!" Kayos thundered.

  Syrin pouted, shot Shevra a cold glance and stepped into the air, vanishing. Shevra realised that she was holding her breath and let it out in a sigh. "The angel."

  Kayos looked bitter. "And she will make me pay for this."

  "How did he know?" She looked at Bane, who still groaned softly.

  "Shrea prays to him."

  Chapter Five

  Sanctuary

  Shrea clung to a crag, her bleeding fingers slipping on the sharp rocks. The demon loomed over her, pounding the rock above her with its fists to try to break the outcrop to which she clung. Part of its head had been burnt away by her fire during the brief, fierce battle between them. It had spotted her when she was only a short distance from the cave and given chase, its huge legs eating up the gap with alarming speed. Several bolts of blue magic had slowed it, gouging chunks from its torso and head, but still it had come on. She had run, slipping on the rough rocks and twisting her ankle, then turned at bay.

  Again her fire had blown chunks out of it and made it stagger back, soil running from it. She was tired from creating the ward, and the cold numbed her hands, making it hard to wield the blue power. When it seemed certain that the demon would catch her, she had prayed, and she still did.

  Had Bane abandoned them? Had it all been a lie? She had slipped behind a craggy outcrop to elude her pursuer, then the rock had crumbled away under her feet and left her clinging to the crag, her legs dangling. The demon could not reach her, however, so it tried to break the rock, and it would succeed. She sobbed, the keening, frigid wind whipping away the steam she gasped. Once again, she prayed to the only deity who could save her.

  "Bane, Demon Lord, please help me!"

  The demon's fists thudded on the rock, which shuddered and creaked under the onslaught, making her hands to slip a little more. The cold and exhaustion sapped her strength, and shock slimed her skin with icy sweat. Soon she would fall, and the demon would kill her, then the sixth ward would never be activated.

  A glowing figure appeared above the demon. Huge, snowy wings swept the air with mighty strokes. In her tiny hands, she held a slender sword, and white flames licked from its blade. The demon whipped around, its maw opening in surprise as the angel raised the sword and brought it down in a lightning-fast stroke. It passed through one of the demon's arms as it raised three defensively, lopping off its hand. White fire blazed from the sword, but the demon did not fear it. Instead, it leapt up the slope to try to strike the angel. She retreated with a sweep of her wings, floating away.

  Shrea scrabbled for a better hold, trying to pull herself back onto the crag. Her bleeding hands slipped, the rock crumbled, and she lost her grip. With a wail, she fell.

  Syrin wondered if there was any point in fighting the demon if the mage was dead. There was a chance that she would survive, however, and Kayos had asked her for help. A request from one of the Seven could not be denied. The demon lunged at her again, and she flew higher still, slashing at it. It roared with rage, its gritty maw opening to reveal stone teeth, its pebble eyes glaring. Syrin folded her wings and dropped, then opened them to halt her fall beside the demon, the sword slicing into its side.

  It staggered, swinging huge fists at her. One struck the edge of her wing, sending her tumbling. A powerful downbeat stopped her fall, but her wing hurt as she flew up to the demon again. She moved closer, the wind tugging at her, blowing her towards her foe. The sword sang in her hands, rejoicing in the battle it so rarely tasted. Not for aeons had an angel summoned the Sword of Vengeance to fight a demon. It guided her, almost dragging her through the air, so strong was its yearning for the demon's destruction.

  Syrin drifted closer still, the sword held before her, its white fire brightening as it sensed the demon's proximity. The fiend lunged at her again, and she slashed at it, the weapon passing through the top of its head, lopping off a few inches. Whittling an earth demon down bit by bit would take a long time, however. It required a strike to its chest to destroy it, and that meant coming within range of its arms, unless she lopped them off first.

  Demons were not stupid, and it kept two arms at its sides to avoid just that. Syrin circled it, trying to get behind it, but it turned to face her, its maw curved in a foul smile. The sword dragged her closer as it tried to plunge itself into the demon's breast. Its only goal was to destroy its enemy, with no regard for the safety of its wielder. The fiend swung a fist, and she back-winged away. The sword quivered and sang, twisting as it slashed upwards, lopping off several of the demon's fingers. Again she retreated, wondering if she had done enough. Perhaps the mage was dead anyway.

  The demon bent, its mud muscles writhing, and ripped a rock from the mountain, which it hurled at her with prodigious ease. Her wings swept the air as she tried to avoid it, but it struck her in the midriff, and pain exploded through her. The force of the blow flung her backwards, and her wings folded, unable to beat while she was on her back. She spiralled down, trying to right herself, barely able to slow her descent. The demon leapt after her, sniggering with gritty vitriol, its mouth stretched in a triumphant grin. Syrin turned over at the last moment, but she still hit the rocks hard. The impact punched the wind out of her, and she sprawled on the jagged surface, scraping her legs and palms. The sword clattered away, falling between the rocks, and terror filled her. She could not step into a Channel unless she stood up, and she did not have the strength to do that.

  The demon pounded closer, its flinty eyes bright with anticipation. Nothing pleased a demon more than conquering an angel. Her death would be slow and painful at its hands. Her midriff ached. An angel's fragile bones were not intended for savage conflict. Her wings were spread across the rocks, weighing her down as she groped into the crevasse where the sword had fallen. The demon was two strides away, and panic froze her gut, almost robbing her of the ability to move or think.

  Instinct urged her to throw up her hands and create a cocoon to hide in, then her hand closed on the smooth, warm hilt, and she turned, her wings twisted awkwardly under her. The demon stood over her, so certain of its victory that it was bending to break her wings so it could toy with her once she was too injured to fight or fly. She screamed, and the sword leapt, almost lifting her off the ground as it pierced the demon's chest. The fiend fell apart in a shower of foul soil, the bulk of which collapsed on Syrin. It filled her mouth and nose with its sulphurous stench, pinning her to the rocks.

  Syrin choked and coughed, struggling to pull herself from the mound of settling earth, which streamed away down the slope, reducing her burden. She wriggled free, grimaced and brushed the demon dust from her skin and clothes. The Sword of Vengeance had vanished, its task complete. Syrin lay gasping, her mind filled with horrible images of what might have happened had the sword not struck when it did.

  Demons hated angels with an unmatched fervour, and conflicts between them were rare, since angels valued their lives. Eventually it might have taken her to Vorkon, if it was one of his minions, and being at the mercy of a dark god did not bear thinking about.

  Fortunately, it had not been a fire demon, for she doubted that she would have had the courage to face one of them, even at Kayos' behest. Although the Sword of Vengeance could ward off the heat of a fire d
emon's eyes, an angel had never been able to get close enough to one of them to strike the fatal blow. Then again, there was only one instance where an angel had fought a fire demon, and he had perished in the attempt. Legend had it that the archangel Syrapheal had saved a city from a marauding fire demon that a black mage had summoned and sent to destroy it. While Syrapheal had fought the demon, the people had fled, and most had survived because of his sacrifice.

  Syrin sat up, taking stock of her injuries. One wing throbbed, her gut ached, and blue blood oozed from the scratches on her legs and hands. The mage was probably dead, she thought bitterly, but she had won. Filled with triumph, she got up, clinging to the rocks, and peered down at the place where the mage had fallen. Shrea lay on a narrow ledge about ten feet down, gazing up at Syrin. The angel smiled and spread her wings, allowing the wind to lift her and carry her down to the mage. Shrea stared at her with an awestruck expression, and Syrin landed beside her, folded her wings and assumed a formal, angelic pose.

  "The demon is no more."

  "Thank you." Shrea managed a weak smile. "Did Bane send you?"

  "No. The Demon Lord has been struck down. Kayos sent me."

  "Struck down? Is he dead?"

  "No. He sleeps."

  "But he heard my prayer."

  "Yes."

  Shrea shifted, grimacing.

  "You are hurt," Syrin murmured.

  "My leg is broken."

  "Unfortunate."

  Shrea pulled a face. "Yes. Is there anything you can do?"

  "No. I cannot heal, nor can I transport you."

  Shrea tugged her coat closer. "I will freeze."

  Syrin glanced around, spotting a shallow cave further down the slope. She held out her hand.

  "Come."

  Shrea took it, and Syrin tugged her down the sloping shelf, offering little support, but a lot of encouragement. The mage crawled, groaning as shafts of pain shot up her leg. When she reached the cave, her breath came in harsh gasps, her skin had grown paler, and deep furrows scored her brow from the pain and effort. Syrin released her hand and stepped back.