Asgoleth The Warrior: A Modern Tale of Sword And Sorcery (fantasy fiction books) (2 page)

‘Come no nearer barbarian or I will slay her!’

Asgoleth came to a halt and stood glaring at him, watching closely for any lapse in his enemy’s attention. A sneer of contempt grew on the priests face.

‘So the mighty warrior is halted in his tracks by concern for a mere girl. My lord Demos was right, your kind are weak. But not we who follow the path laid down for us by the dread lord Balzarr. Always we shall triumph over you. With lord Demos to lead us the land of Akon shall rule the world.’

The man threw his head back and laughed wildly and the light of the fanatic burned in his eyes.

Asgoleth frowned at his words, he had heard the name of Demos before and always it had been associated with evil deeds. A sorcerer in the service of King Trannos of Akon, he was an evil and ambitious man by all accounts and steeped in evil lore. A thrill of superstitious unease ran through him. He had heard many dark tales of sorcerers and magicians and he wished to have nothing to do with any of them but he could not just walk away and let this helpless girl be taken by one such as that. He shrugged and took a step forward and the priest snarled.

‘I warn you barbarian I will not hesitate to kill her. Lay down your sword and back away. Do it or she dies!’

The smooth flesh of the girl’s throat whitened as the pressure from the priest’s blade increased and her eyes were full of terror as she looked at Agoleth. He gripped his sword hilt tightly as he considered the situation. If he attacked he could not hope to reach her before Morius slew her. Yet perhaps such a swift death would be easier for her considering what the priest had planned for her. He glared at the man and snarled.

‘If you kill her your master will not be pleased with his dog. What punishment will he inflict on you if you fail him?’

The priests face went white as the barbarian’s words sank home. He well knew that the punishment would be terrible indeed. Demos did not accept failure from his servants. Nervous and angry, Morius tightened his grip on the girl until she cried out in pain and he growled,

‘Enough of this, I will talk no more with you. Drop your sword now and step away or she dies.’

Asgoleth saw that he meant what he said. He would kill her now unless his order was obeyed. A moan of despair escaped the girl as Asgoleth laid down his sword and stepped back. Morius grinned, threw back his head and laughed his wild laugh again, exulting in his power over the barbarian. Asgoleth saw his chance and swiftly drawing his heavy, double-edged dagger, he launched it at his enemy.

The blade, propelled by the mighty muscles of his arm, flew unerringly to its target, the point smashing through the priests throat to emerge from the back of his head in a black spray of blood and brains. The maniac laughter died to a shocked, blood choked gurgle and his hand from which his scimitar had fallen, clutched futilely at the protruding hilt. For a moment he stared in disbelief at the young barbarian and then his legs gave way and he slumped to the ground and lay still. The girl too gave a moan and fell to the ground in a dead faint and Asgoleth snatched up his sword and ran over to where they lay, ready to finish off the priest should he still live. He need not have feared. Deaths iron grip had already closed on the priest and he was now on his way to hell. He would never harm anyone again.

Asgoleth's keen eye caught the glint of gold about the man's neck and he stooped and pulled free a golden amulet. The amulet bore the image of a hideous reptilian face and he felt a shudder of distaste. Was this an image of the dead priests god? Despite the barbarians mercenary lust for gold he threw the thing from him into the darkness where it belonged. It felt unclean in his hand and he wanted no part of it.

He retrieved his dagger and wiped both it and his sword clean on the dead man’s robe. Then he strode over to where the girl lay. He knelt down beside her and gathered her up in his strong arms, brushing her foaming black hair away from her face.

He saw at once, from the torn remains of her fine gown of Kossian silk and from the costly jewels entwined in her hair and about her throat, that this girl he had saved was no ordinary wench. His brow wrinkled in thought as he looked down at her. She looked familiar to him and he wondered how that could be.

He was a common mercenary soldier while she was obviously a highborn lady; such as she did not mingle with the common soldiery. Then, like a thunderbolt, it struck him. He remembered where he had seen this beautiful young girl before. Six months ago, when he had been stationed at Fort Kronos at the mouth of the Agar pass, King Aractus of Torr had come to inspect his troops. With him had been his retinue of lords and ladies and generals and among their number had been the high priestess of Solus, the Goddess of Light and Life. This slim young girl was none other than that same high priestess.

He looked down upon her and grinned hugely. Perhaps, after all, there was profit to be made from good deeds. For this girl held other titles too. Lying within the protection of his arms was none other than the Princess Amira, future queen of mighty Torr.

The image of the man in the ancient mirror flickered and wavered but the tone of terror in his voice was clear enough.

‘My lord, forgive me I beg you. I tried to recapture the princess but whoever killed Alarr and Morius had taken her and vanished into the darkness like a ghost. I could find no trail to follow.’

Demos listened to his servant’s words with mounting fury.

‘You fool! You have failed me and you know I do not tolerate failure.’

‘My lord, be merciful. I will do better.’

But it was too late, Demos’ eyes glared at the image in the mirror and he slowly raised his hand. Upon his thin finger a ring, set with a strange red stone, began to glow and pulsate with increasing strength. Then a bright beam of energy sprang forth and was engulfed by the glass. Many miles away, in far off Torr, the hapless acolyte was suddenly enveloped in a glowing nimbus of red light. His flesh began to smoulder and blacken and he voiced a shrill, inhuman shriek of agony. Louder and louder his screams became until at last his image in the ancient mirror vanished in a grisly explosion of flesh and blood.

In the sudden silence of his chamber the only sound was the harsh breathing of Demos. The glow of the ring faded away until once again it appeared to be only a brilliant yet ordinary gemstone set in a circle of gold. Demos spat angrily at the glass then began to pace up and down the chamber. His eye fell upon the gleaming steel and crystal rods of his creation and he cursed viciously. There lay the result of long years of occult study and labour, a weapon of such destructive power that it would give him mastery of the entire world. Yet there it lay, useless for want of a source of power.

He knew that a fabulous gem called The Heart of Ra would complete his device giving him power to rival that of the ancient warlords who had lived before the Great Destruction but there was a problem. The Heart of Ra lay hidden and only the high priestess of the Torran sun god knew where it was.

He had sent his minions to kidnap her and bring her to him. He knew that once she was in his power he could use his dark magic to control her mind and force her to reveal the gem’s location but they had failed him and they had payed the price for their failure. Now it was time for more direct methods.

He turned away from his hellish creation and swept out of the chamber. He did not bother to secure the door behind him; he knew that none of the superstitious fools in the palace would dare to enter. They held him in too much fear. He grinned at the thought, they did not yet know the meaning of fear but he would teach them.

As he stalked along the palace corridors towards the throne room his mind went back to his youth in his far off, demon haunted homeland of Siltha. There, deep in their underground fortress, he had sat at the feet of the adepts of the Black Path; men whose souls were steeped in evil and who were, in truth, no longer fully human.

He had learned all that these mages could teach him. He had learned of the world as it had been before the destruction; learned of the terrible powers that the men of those ancient times had controlled. As his knowledge grew, so too did his ambitions. The mages’ of the Black Path were content to rule their own land but this was not enough for him, he wanted to rule the world. In pursuit of his goal he studied long and hard and as his store of dark knowledge grew and his power increased, he grew ever more arrogant and impatient to take his rightful place as master of the world. It was his destiny, he was sure of that and nothing would be allowed to stand in the way of it, nothing.

Finally, his masters’ realised just how powerful he had become and in their arrogance and pride they had thought they could still control him. They had paid for that mistake with their lives and now only he, Demos of Siltha, knew the ancient, dark secrets of power. Once he was able to secure the Heart of Ra he would be invincible.

Ahead of him he saw the massive bronze doors beyond which lay the throne room of King Trannos of Akon. A cruel smile touched his thin lips as he strode, unopposed by the frightened guards, into the huge room. A nervous silence fell upon those gathered there as they beheld him. He sensed their fear of him and he relished it. Soon now they would fear him even more.

In the uncomfortable silence only his soft footfalls and the swish of his long black robe of Kossian silk could be heard as he approached the throne. His shaven head gleamed in the light of the many torches that lit the room and his eyes burned with unholy lights as he contemplated what was to come.

Seeing his face, people hurried to get out of his way as he drew near, even the tough, hard-bitten men of the kings guard. Men, who had stood firm in the face of advancing enemy armies, flinched and drew back a step as he passed by. He basked in their fear and drew strength from it. A tingle of anticipation ran up his spine. At last he felt he was ready for that which was to come.

Finally he reached the foot of the raised platform where lay King Trannos amid piles of cushions. Trannos was a cruel man, a despotic tyrant and a fit ruler for his equally cruel people. He was held in fear by all, all that is, except Demos who sneered openly and remained standing instead of prostrating himself in front of the king as was the usual custom. His sneer grew even broader as he gazed coldly down upon the king.

The man was a mountain of unhealthy flesh. Long years of soft living, of indulgence in every vice, had taken their toll upon him. His fine robes were stained with food and wine, his eyes, almost buried in folds of flabby flesh, were bloodshot and bore more than a hint of insanity.

Demos could have killed him there and then but he wanted all here to witness and appreciate the power he held. He held his peace and waited, his time was almost upon him now. He cleared his mind in preparation and stood silently, smiling coldly.

King Trannos. Unaware of Demos’ approach, was giggling obscenely as his thick fingers explored the firm contours of the writhing slave girl in his lap. She was young and wore nothing save a silver collar about her slim throat and a hands breadth of gossamer thin silk about her shapely hips. Trannos, no longer virile, had turned to other sources for his gratification. He could still inflict pain and degradation and he took intense pleasure in doing so.

The girl’s eyes were full of shame and despair as she writhed beneath her master’s cruel hands. Each time she moaned under his probing, pinching fingers, he giggled again and renewed his assault upon her soft flesh.

Seeking succour she looked desperately around her at the faces of the Akonite nobles. She saw no pity in their eyes, only bland indifference or cruel lust. Then her eyes met those of Demos and she gasped.

His gaze held hers and as she felt herself being drawn into his eyes she forgot her torment. Her hand flew to her mouth and her lovely eyes opened wide as she felt her very soul being pulled down into those black, inhuman orbs; down into a shadowy world of nightmare and horror where only his will existed.

In her young life she had known much cruelty from men but here, in this dark place, she sensed a black diabolism that dwarfed the evil of ordinary men. She tried to scream but her voice caught in a throat constricted by terror and she could only whimper. Demos sneered at her and she shuddered at the evil she saw in his face. Others saw it too and made the sign of the horns to ward off evil. Tiring of his sport Demos released her gaze from his and she gasped and fell back in a swoon.

The king cursed vilely as she slumped to the floor. He pushed her roughly away and snatching up a golden, jewel encrusted, goblet of wine he drained it at a gulp and threw threw the empty vessel with vicious force at the unconscious girl. Only then did he notice Demos standing quietly watching him. His sweat streaked face creased with anger and he snapped,

‘What are you doing here wizard? You were not summoned to my presence.’

Then he too stared into Demos’ eyes and felt a thrill of unease ripple through his flesh. There was something different about the mage. An unholy sense of purpose emanated from the man and King Trannos, used only to servile obedience from his subjects, felt his unease grow. He licked suddenly dry lips and moved away from the tall, dark, man in front of him. Demos bowed mockingly and said,

‘Lord King, I pray you forgive the intrusion of your humble servant. I have come to you with news of great importance,’

Trannos scowled at the wizard’s impertinence.

‘Well! What is this news wizard? Speak swiftly before I have you whipped.’

Demos bowed once again, insolently, and the king’s face flushed red with anger but something warned him to keep his peace. Demos said,

‘Lord King, all here are aware that for many years now you have dreamed of forming a great Akonite empire. Your ambitions however have been brought to nothing by your enemies in the land of Torr. No matter how many men you throw against them they are always triumphant over you.’

Furious at being reminded of the Torran thorn in his flesh the king snarled,

‘Aye, their damned garrisons are too firmly ensconced in their mountain fortresses for my troops to dislodge them. We all know this wizard, what is this news you speak of? Have you found a way for my armies to defeat them? Speak now, your master commands you.’