Nate Kenyon - The Order

“Your abilities are strong,” Maahnor said. “Calling me to this bodily shell took skills I have seen in only one other man: Bartuc himself. But demonic magic is wild and powerful. You may control it, and eventually realize it is controlling you. And you will require far more than that to call the rest of our army back to life.”

“Feel this,” the Dark One said. “Touch the pregnant belly that will give life to your brothers.”

Maahnor walked over to the stone and put his own possessed hands upon it, closing his eyes. A moment later, a slight smile creased his lips, and he breathed in deeply. “It is good,” he said. “But still not enough.”

The Dark One nodded. “I have more,” he said. “A nearly endless supply.”

Only in the course of the battle at the camp in the hills had the reason behind Belial’s orders become clear to him: the girl’s pure power was breathtaking—even, the Dark One was loath to admit, stronger than his own. She had tossed about his demon horde like kindling, and only the dart filled with Torajan root had taken her down. If his archer hadn’t acted so quickly, he didn’t know what might have happened. Perhaps she would have cracked the world in two. It did not matter; the important thing was that her abilities would provide the ignition for the vast well of energy he had gathered with the help of his feeders. Once ignited, this lifespark would raise his undead army.

“Commune with the spirits of your men, Maahnor. Get them ready. Come tomorrow, they will regain the strength to rise and walk, and you shall lead them into battle once again.”

“I will speak to them,” Maahnor said. “But they serve me, not you. Should they choose to go to battle, they will fight at my side, for me.”

Rage erupted inside the Dark One, making the blue veins pulse in his forehead. “Your return to the living plane has given you a false sense of your own talents, Maahnor. You are bound to me by the blood ritual—a thread that connects us through the centuries. You are duty bound to obey.”

“Perhaps,” the man said, walking around the bulbous face of the containment chamber, “or perhaps I shall take control right now, and awaken them myself.”

“Not even the Lord of Lies himself could break such a contract.”

Maahnor smiled. “You have much to learn, my poor little friend.”

The Dark One felt the familiar twinges of inadequacy and fought against them. That was the old Garreth Rau, a helpless child who had let others take advantage of him. Those days were gone.

He had to teach this insolent man a lesson.

The Dark One raised his arms, summoning the element of fire. Blue arcs like lightning flew from his fingers, striking Maahnor in the chest. But the man did not cry out or fall back, as the Dark One had expected; instead he smiled again and raised his own hands, cupping the blue fire and holding it away from him.

Shame and fear rushed through the Dark One. He was the strongest mage in Sanctuary. Belial had told him so, and he had demonstrated his talents many times. This could not happen.

Maahnor took a step toward him. The Dark One faltered slightly, falling to one knee. But just as he thought all was lost, a fresh wave of power flowed through him. He regained his feet and struck back with a mighty blast of fire, sending Maahnor flying across the room, where he crumpled in a heap.

The Dark One stood over the man, who looked up at him in shock. “Do not defy me again,” he said, “or your new life will be far shorter than you think.”

The Dark One climbed the long steps to the ritual room at the top of the tower, flush with the success of battle. But a small part of what remained of Garreth Rau felt discomfort. He did not understand what had happened in the containment chamber. Why hadn’t he been able to wield such power at first? How much of this talent did he control?

It did not matter, he thought. Garreth Rau is no more. There was only the Dark One, lord of Sanctuary. There was no room for indecision and failure.

Outside the stone walls, he could hear the crows.

There were countless numbers of the birds now, blanketing every surface. Some were his servants; others had simply flocked here on their own, perhaps feeling these very same vibrations from miles away. Called home to join the battle, they swooped and darted through the slate-gray skies above the heads of other things cavorting in the surf: his children, born of darkness, blood, and fire.

The old man had done exactly what he had been supposed to do. The fool. Everything the Dark One had put in motion had worked flawlessly. His spies had followed Cain and the girl for the remainder of their journey, keeping out of sight unless they had been required to provide a little push. The remaining First Ones had played their roles, willingly or not. Possessing the body and soul of Egil had been particularly sweet, even when he had been forced to yield it to the Lord of Lies himself.

Yet the plan had not truly been the Dark One’s own, he had to admit. He was a conduit of sorts, too. Belial had been the one to whisper in the Dark One’s ear about the girl’s importance. He had been the one to suggest this deceit: all the clues he had placed in Cain’s path had been Belial’s work—the appearance of the demon in the ruins, the books the First Ones had left there for Cain to find, the man in Caldeum he had possessed for long enough to point the old man to Kurast.

He took his hands from the stone and turned away, walking across the empty floor to where his captive lay alone and motionless. No. He might be serving his lord for now, but soon enough he would rule this world and order the deaths of thousands of guilty men, women, and children. He was in control. Sanctuary would be his prize, in return for opening the gates of Hell. Belial had promised it to him.

From below, in more hidden rooms populated by devices too unspeakable for humans to fathom, he heard the distant screams of those he had imprisoned and tortured. Their pain helped feed the insatiable need of the tower for energy, just as his feeders drained the people of their lifespark and brought it here, where it gathered like a building electrical storm.

But Maahnor was right: it was not enough.

He stared down at the girl, still heavily drugged. All this had been necessary because of her. She was the key to awakening his slumbering army. Yet her power was so dangerous, he could not have brought her here had he been acting alone. She had been protected by something he only faintly understood.

The Dark One slid the familiar blade from the sleeve of his robe. It had tasted his blood and found it satisfactory, and it would taste the blood of many others before the final deed was done. The girl would provide the spark that he required. He could sense it, feel the pulse of energy from her even as she slept.

It was time to test her.

The Dark One shivered with anticipation. He brought a small corked vial from the pocket of his robe and knelt next to her in the shadows. Removing the stopper, he waved the bottle under her nose, then sat back and waited. A moment later, she began to stir. He smiled. She stretched against her bonds, but the chains that bound her held strong. Judging by what had happened at the camp, he had little faith that such a thing would contain her once she was fully awake. But in her current state, with the drugs still thick in her veins, she would have little energy left for a fight.

As she moaned softly and her eyelids fluttered, he quickly bent forward again, slipped his blade up against the ball of her right thumb, and let it bite down, holding the vial under her skin to catch the blood as it dripped.

He never would have expected what happened next. Leah opened her eyes, her gaze fixing vacantly on his face. The Dark One immediately felt the temperature in the room turn to ice, and at the same time he felt a sudden heat on his skin, like the sun beating down on him.