The Divided Knight - Chapter Ten

Atraxos ran his fingers – it was still difficult for him to think of them as his, even though the body which had belonged to Garris Galgana was not the first body that had played host to Atraxos's essence in the long years since his original body had been slain – uneasily over the surface of the book. This book's title, translated from Eltaran into the mongrel form of Common that was spoken, these days, was The Book of Unfathomed Darkness. It had been in Atraxos's possession for more than three millennia, and, even now, even after understanding so much of what power the book could grant him, and what powers it had in its own right, he still found it disturbing. Perhaps what disturbed him about it was the fact that no mortal hand had played a part in the book's creation – it had been crafted in the Sundered Halls by the Demon Lords, its final touches placed on it by the Hidden King, himself – or perhaps it was how it had served as Atraxos's prison for four hundred years. He had been aware of every tortuous moment of those four hundred years, his only solace being that the book had slowly corrupted those who guarded it. When the time had finally come for him to escape, when he had at last been found by Galgana and his followers, Atraxos had taken much satisfaction in having soldiers who were already primed to accept his commands.

If the book had been encountered by someone who knew nothing about it, and if that someone had no way of sensing the book's arcane origins, there would have been nothing about it to make it look or feel out of the ordinary in any way. Its cover was unadorned, with the texture of well-weathered leather, and, if viewed in normal lighting, the edges of its pages would have looked yellowed with age. A metal hasp held the book closed. The hasp could be unlocked with a twist of the knob set into it, and Atraxos let his fingers linger over it, both wanting and not wanting to twist at the same time. Why do I hesitate? he wondered. The escaped knight has forced my hand, and I know what I must do.

There was no turning back once Atraxos opened the book, however. Once opened, the power of the book would be laid bare, and, for only the second time in his existence, Atraxos would no longer be in control. Long ago, he had sworn to himself that he would only open the book, again, in the direst of need. Was his need that dire, now? Was one escaped knight, who, though aided by magical means, had no magical ability of his own, worth becoming vassal to the Demon Lords over? Haven't I always been their vassal, though? Aren't all Necromancers, in one way or another, servants to the Lords of the Sundered Halls?

Atraxos twisted the knob. An electric shock snapped at his fingers, making him jerk them away, and the hasp fell open. As soon as the hasp was open, the book opened, as well, and Atraxos's study, which had only been lit, before, by the flickering light of a few candles, was flooded with a blood-red glow. The glow came from the middle of the open book, and Atraxos found himself unable to look away from it. At first – just as he had the last time he'd opened the book, in those days now long since lost – he tried to fight it, gripping the edge of his desk as he tried to pull his head backward. Gradually, however, his struggles began to lessen, the glow growing welcoming, like that of a campfire on a cold winter's night. There was nothing about that glow to be frightened of. And, in the place where it came from, there were friends – friends who had been waiting for him for a long, long time. I'm coming! he thought, and then, in the blink of an eye, Atraxos was elsewhere.

The overpowering stench of sulfur and blood told Atraxos all he needed to know about where he was. Opening his eyes and looking around, he found himself in a small room with walls of stone. A dungeon cell, he thought. Why put me in here? Looking down at himself, Atraxos saw he was dressed in beggars rags, which also made no sense – the last time he had visited the Sundered Halls, he'd been draped in a robe the color of midnight, a crimson serpent spewing fire sewn onto its front.

Atraxos turned as the door to his cell was unlocked and pulled open. A skeleton with burning eye sockets, wearing a scorched steel breastplate and carrying a wicked looking halberd, stood in the doorway looking in on him. Though the skeleton said nothing, Atraxos understood it had come to collect him, but he had no intention of going with it without at least trying to figure out what was going on.

“What is the meaning of this?” Atraxos asked, pleased that the voice he spoke in was his original one, and not that of Garris Galgana. “Why dress me in rags and throw me in the dungeon like some kind of criminal?”

The skeleton said nothing, and it did not move. The fire burning in its eye sockets seemed to grow brighter, however, and Atraxos thought he could feel its heat. Incensed, Atraxos readied a spell that, armor or not, would blast the skeleton apart. However, just at the moment he was about to cast it, he realized something that made his blood run cold – he could feel no magic here. That should not have been, could not have been. Magic was everywhere, in everything, and someone with an arcane talent as strong as Atraxos's should have sensed it at all times, even in a place like the Sundered Halls. What had happened to him?

Atraxos sagged in defeat. He looked at the skeleton in the doorway a moment longer, then let it lead him out of the cell. The skeleton wasn't alone – a second, dressed and armed in the same manner as the first, and possessing the same burning eye sockets, joined them once Atraxos was outside the cell, falling in behind him as they walked. The skeletons led him through the cavernous halls of an enormous palace – based on its size, along with the finery and opulence that surrounded them as they walked, it had to be the palace of the Hidden King, himself, a thought which gave Atraxos no small amount of pause – until, at last, they came to a high-ceilinged room dominated by a throne made of bone.

A human-shaped figure, dressed all in black, its face silhouetted by a nimbus of flickering flames that seemed to emerge directly from its shoulders, sat on the throne. Though he had never been in the presence of the Hidden King, before, Atraxos knew that was who the figure was, and the terror that knowledge spawned inside of him subsumed all confusion over why he did not look like an Eltaran. From his throne, the Hidden King looked down on Atraxos, and, though he couldn't see it clearly because of the flames, Atraxos was sure the smile that graced the Demon Lord's lips was a cruel one.

“Atraxos Solkanan,” the Hidden King said, his voice clearly audible even though it was little more than a menacing whisper. “It has been a long time since you have visited these Halls. Millennia, in your reckoning, has it not?”

Atraxos was too terrified to speak. He was too terrified to even think.

The Hidden King chuckled. “You fear me. You fear all my kind. And yet, you use our power to do your will. If you are not afraid of our power, why are you afraid of us?”

Atraxos licked his lips. He had to say something. If he didn't, the Demon Lord was sure to destroy him. “I . . . I do not fear, Great One.”

“Ah, at last the Eltaran speaks, even if it is to lie. Tell me, Atraxos, why did you turn your back on us? Did we not bestow upon you all that was promised?”

“You . . . you gave me great power, indeed, High One. And I never intended to forget the debt I owed to you and yours. I always intended on calling upon you, again.”

“Did you?” Atraxos could sense the Hidden King narrowing his eyes. “Did you, indeed?” The Hidden King sat back in his throne. “You spoke of the debt you owe. Are you prepared to repay it? Are you prepared to unleash us on the world? To set us free, at last?”

Atraxos wasn't prepared. This was why he had avoided opening the book for so long. Even he, a Necromancer who commanded dark powers and sought only to dominate others, had never wanted to see the Demon Lords let loose upon the land. They would ravage it in ways he never could, and, once they were free, there was no one who could stand against them. The Council of Light had perished eons ago, and Solanas had been the last mage who could have named himself a Nightslayer. I opened the book, Atraxos thought. But it will not only be me who pays the price.

“What if I say no?” Atraxos asked.

“Then you will die,” the Hidden King said. “By rights, I should have had you killed, already. Killed for turning your back on us and betraying us.” He paused, and Atraxos knew he was smiling his cruel smile, again. “But I decided to be merciful, instead, and give you this one last chance to redeem yourself.” He leaned forward, and his tone grew conspiratorial. “And, if you do say yes, the reward will be substantial. I promise you that.”

“What . . . what reward?”

“I will make you one of us.”

One of them? Suddenly, Atraxos's felt his lust for power stir within him, felt as it pushed his terror at standing before the Hidden King's throne aside. Before, when he'd been told what the cost of the deal he struck with the Demon Lords would be, nothing had been said about him becoming one of them. He had always assumed that, when the time came for him to pay, he would suffer alongside everyone else.

“You would do that, Great One?” Atraxos asked. “Truly?”

“I would,” the Hidden King said. “All you need do is say yes.”

“Yes, then,” Atraxos said. “Yes!”

The Hidden King threw back his head and laughed.