When Angels Fall (Demon Lord) (2 page)

Never had Majelin witnessed such power, and almost forgot his pain as the two gods struck blows that unleashed crackling bursts of blinding radiance and deafening thunderbolts. Pretarin’s blows seemed more potent, yet appeared to have less effect. Majelin did not know the reason for it, but for several moments, he dared to h
ope that Pretarin might escape.

Torvaran’s shadowy hands closed around the light god’s throat, and blue fire flared where they touched, crawling up Torvaran’s arms in writhing filaments. He drew dark power from the gloom in streams of shadow to counter the white fire that ate away at his form, and Pretarin’s struggles weakened. His shield vanished as he lost the power to sustain it, and rivers of radiance formed all around him, drawn from the closest light source, many leagues away. The two gods became the meeting point of warring energies, where light met dark in a blue conflagration, chasing away the shadows. Yet, even though Pretarin’s brilliance burnt away Torvaran’s shadows and illuminated his twisted fe
atures, the darkness prevailed.

Pretarin struck Torvaran three more times, each blow weaker than the last, yet still evincing bursts of radiance and thunderous booms. Majelin realised that this was not due to Pretarin’s dwindling strength, but to the power of the light he wielded. His radiance grew until he became incandescent, forcing Majelin to squint
. He could barely make out Pretarin’s agonised face within the nimbus of white fire that emanated from him, growing brighter as the light god neared death.

Majelin found it excruciating to watch a creator’s demise; the universe would be poorer for his loss. Ghostly forms became visible in the air above Pretarin as creatures of the light that dwelt on the very edge of existence gathered to bear witness to the destruction of a lord of the light.
The archangel’s eyes overflowed and a sob closed his throat.

Pretarin’s radiance dimmed, his skin turned grey and his eyes closed. The light
shrank into a brilliant star in his chest as his spirit abandoned its hold on his substance. Torvaran braced himself as a blinding lance of light shot upwards from Pretarin with a hissing crackle. For several moments, he became a pillar of white fire that illuminated the barren plain for leagues around, then it shattered with a monstrous roar.

The wall of white fire swept through Majelin in a searing swathe, healed him and destroyed the demons. He collapsed, stunned, and raised his head. A shield of black power protected Torvaran. All that remained of Pretarin was a white, star-shaped pattern in the sand, and the echoes of his cataclysmic destruction. The fire his death had unleashed swept away the clouds and turned the sky blue, covered the land with pale mist and changed the ground whe
re he had died to diamond sand.

For a few moments, the dark wasteland resembled a fragment of light realm, then the mist seeped away and the sky darkened once more. Only the patch of diamond sand marked the spot where a light god had died. Majelin climbed to his feet and staggered towards the closest Channel, his shaking legs barely strong enough to carry him. Torvaran caught him within a few strides, smashed him down and kicked him in the head.

Majelin
had woken chained in this cavern, and, shortly thereafter, Torvaran had begun his torture. First, he had amputated Majelin’s wings, slowly. A few cuts a day, from Torvaran’s duron dagger, had sliced through flesh and sinew, then bone. First one, then the other, his wings had been stripped from him while he writhed and screamed. The gore had crusted on his back, layer upon layer as each day fresh blood had flowed. His wings had been displayed on the ground in front of him. Torvaran had ordered torches lighted to ensure the archangel could see his severed wings, and then had ordered the demons to beat him every time he closed his eyes. Eventually, the wings had rotted away. The bones still littered the floor, grey and crushed now.

Over
the past five hundred years, the archangel had suffered so many forms of abuse that he could not remember them all, and perhaps that was a mercy. At times, the pain became so intense that he passed out, only to wake still racked by agony. Dark gods hated angels, especially archangels, and longed to turn them to the darkness, but rarely succeeded. Even when he was not being tormented, being chained to a wall was its own torture, as was the hunger and thirst he suffered. Such things could not kill him, and, as far as he knew, he would hang on this rock face until the light within him weakened and the darkness claimed his soul.

Several
centuries ago, another dark god had joined in Majelin’s torture, and two others, one a female, had occasionally tormented him. The archangel had become inured to it, and found ways to cast his mind into another place to escape it, yet the minions of the darkness had never tired of it. Time was hard to judge in the darkness, but Majelin had clung to the light.

N
ow, something had changed. No one had tortured him for some time, and he wondered why. He shifted and eased his wrists in the shackles, restoring circulation to his hands, as he did regularly. While he might be freed if his hands rotted off, all that would do was enable him to lie down in the leg irons. There was no escape. He had accepted that several centuries ago. The dark realm’s corruption sullied him in every way, and he hated his stench and filth, even if none of it was his. Demons loved to use dirt to degrade.

A while
ago, a deep chime had shivered the ground, and the demons that had been amusing themselves at his expense at the time had rushed out. Since then, there had been an unusual amount of demon activity in the corridor outside his cavern. The chime told him that someone had closed the dark realm’s world gate. Since Torvaran had forced the gate to remain open, only he, or another dark god, could have closed it. That made no sense. Even if Torvaran had become annoyed at the other dark gods in his domain, and ousted them, he would not close the gate. The mystery ate at Majelin, adding to his misery.

R
osy light brightened the cavern as five fire demons entered it, and a dozen earth demons followed, some using the entrance, others rising from the floor. They gathered around Majelin, sniggering, and two of the fire demons raked him with burning eyes, blistered his skin and made him grit his teeth. He would not give them the satisfaction of making him cry out, and he would fight them to the bitter end. An earth demon stepped closer and scraped its fist down Majelin’s cheek, the sharp stones slicing his skin.

“Time for you to
be of more use, angel,” it grated. “The ones who let you live for their sport are all cast down into the Land of the Dead, so you belong to us now.” It gave a gritty guffaw, revealing stone teeth in a vile grin.

“Who cast them down?” Majelin asked, curious despite himself.

“A dark god, of course. Did you think one of your pathetic lords of light could prevail against the darkness?”

“Why did he close the world gate?”

The demon’s expression blackened, and the rest muttered. Evidently the gate’s closure was a sore point, and he wondered why, but knew he would get no answers. Majelin drew himself up, calling upon the white fire at his core for strength, and summoned the Sword of Vengeance. The fiery weapon appeared in his hand, and he swung it at the closest demon. Even hampered by the chains, he could do considerable damage, but the fire demons’ burning eyes would defeat him in the end. The earth demon jumped back, part of its arm lopped off, and growled a foul curse. The rest closed in, eager to spill an archangel’s blood, as they had longed to do for five centuries.

Majelin
slashed at another earth demon that struck him from the side, slicing off a chunk. The chains limited his reach, and the demons knew they could strike him with relative impunity. They toyed with him, enjoying his suffering and hopeless defiance, and many more crowded into the chamber to partake in his torture and eventual demise. Fire demons raked him with burning glares, inflicting blistered lines across his chest, arms and face.

A blow on the side of his head dazed him, and he slumped, losing his grip on the sword. He was vaguely aware of the demons ripping the manacles from the wall, then one scooped him up and carried him out. A blur of dark tunnels passed as he struggled to clear his mind of the red haze that clouded it. The demon bore him through a door whose frame was decorated with runic symbols and dumped him on a stone slab at the
centre of a fair-sized chamber.

The demons fastened his manacles to the
slab’s corners, spread-eagling him upon it. The angel raised his head as his senses sharpened and surveyed his new prison, noting the lines of runes on the walls. Four torches burnt in sconces in the corners, and the place stank of rot and death. He sensed a powerful and ancient magic at work within the chamber, the sort that only a god could have cast. Whatever the demons planned for him, they evidently did not intend to kill him yet, and he contemplated that with a mixture of relief that he still had a vestige of hope and dread at what horrors might lie ahead.

The Demon Lord roused softly from the deep arms of sleep, as if swept onto a wakeful shore by gentle waves. He snuggled closer to his wife and inhaled her hair’s sweet fragrance. She squirmed and turned to him, and he opened his eyes. Mirra met his gaze and smiled. He returned it, then closed his eyes again.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said.

“Mmmm. Why?”

“It is time to get up.”

“Why?”

“We have things to do.”

“What?”

She giggled. “Are you not going to visit Kayos today?”

“Not now.”

“You cannot lie abed all day.”

“Yes, I can.”

She sighed. “You are like a grumpy bear in the morning.”

“Then do not nag me.”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are.”

“Sleep then. I will make breakfast.” She tried to rise, but he held her tighter.

“No. Stay.”

“I am not lying abed all day.”

“Why not?”

“I will be bored. I have things to do, even if you do not.”

“You will not be bored.” He opened his eyes again and smiled.

She giggled. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something interesting.”

She slipped her arms around his neck. “Do tell, My Lord.”

“I would rather show you.”

Mirra’s smile widened as he drew her closer, then a shriek of girlish laughter shattered the peace, and he winced. His eyes flicked to the door through which the sounds filtered as a thud and another shriek followed.

“What is Ethra doing here?” he enquired.

She shrugged. “She is probably talking to Mithran and Grem.”

“What are
they
doing here?”

“You said we were going to visit Kayos and Sherinias today.”

“I did not mean at the crack of dawn.”

“It is far past dawn.”

He grunted. “It feels like dawn to me. If they do not be quiet, I will make the sun go down again.”

She giggled. “Ooh, how very godly of you, My Lord.”

“Do not be cheeky.”

“Or what?”

“I…” Bane winced again as more shrieks came from the kitchen. He raised his head. “Ethra!”

Murmuring followed, then scraping sounds and more giggles. He met Mirra’s sparkling eyes.

“I do not think they can hear you,” she said.

“Yet I can hear them. How is that possible?”

“Probably because they are making so much noise.”

“And they should know better.”

An ear-splitting shriek was followed by gales of giggles and softer male chuckles.

“What
are
they doing?” Bane asked.

She shook her head. “I have no idea, but it sounds like fun.”

“I had other fun in mind, and they are ruining it.”

“I do not think that is their intention.”

He groaned as more shrieks and giggles came from the kitchen. He scowled in that direction. “Ethra! Be quiet!”

“Do not spoil their fun,” Mirra chided.

“They are spoiling mine.”

A crash made him start and glare at the wall, annoyed.

Mirra murmured, “Bane… do not.”

“Why not?”

“It is rude.”

“They are being rude,” he said. “Why can they not go and make that ruckus elsewhere?”

“They are waiting for you to get up.”

“Then they should do it quietly.”

“If you silence them, they will be in here in a flash.”

“No, they will not.”

She snorted. “Do not be such a spoilsport.”

“And they are not?”

She clasped his face and kissed him. “Grouchy.”

“Irritated.”

“Grumpy.”

“Annoyed.”

Thuds and scrapes came through the wall, along with shrieks and chuckles. Bane raised his head again, and silence fell.

Mirra grinned and shook her head. “Peevish!”

The door handle rattled, and then a fist pounded on it. Bane groaned again and rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes.