Nate Kenyon - The Order

One of the First Ones shouted a warning from below. Mikulov looked down and saw hideous creatures at the foot of the ladder, forcing their way up just below the rest of the traveling party.

A trap. He scrambled up the last rungs, his fear suddenly forgotten in the rush of energy that washed over him, and thrust himself out, going into a roll and regaining his feet in a smooth, powerful burst, his weapon up and ready.

He had emerged onto a huge, stone courtyard. A cold, stinking rain pattered down from leaden skies.

The courtyard was seething with creatures from the depths of Hell itself.

A group of skinless, muscled beasts approached from the left, slinking on all fours, their doglike, snarling faces dripping acidic fluid. Mikulov spotted several female demons with their swords extended, sensual curves carelessly exposed between blue-veined patches of flesh. There were huge beetle monsters and a swarm of airborne insects with six-inch stingers, and beyond their ranks, hundreds or perhaps thousands of the feeders, advancing upon all fours with their moonlike faces turned skyward.

Farris had been pulled out of the tunnel by a red-skinned overseer, a leader of the dog-beasts—the horned, heavily muscled fallen ones, their eyes glowing with demon fire. The overseer threw its head back and howled at the sky, beating its bloated chest with clawed fingers, and snapping a long barbed whip over the backs of its minions. Mikulov expected to see Farris ripped limb from limb, but the creatures parted as he walked forward, smiling.

“Welcome to hell,” Farris said, spreading his arms wide. Behind him, the demon horde screeched with excitement, the sound nearly deafening.

Thomas had cleared the hole and was standing next to it, blinking into the gray light, a stunned look on his face. “You?” he said. “No. Not you, Farris.”

The man was grinning. His pupils were dilated and fixed, his face slightly flushed. “He is under the control of another,” Mikulov said quietly. “Possessed, like Egil in the meeting room.”

Farris turned his hypnotic gaze on Mikulov. “You thought I was going to just sit by and wait to die, with all of you? It was my choice to join the Dark One.”

“The Dark One?” Thomas said. “Garreth Rau?”

Farris nodded. “It was their choice, as well.” He pointed to the hole, as three others climbed out. Farris’s crew. They quickly took up positions around the tunnel opening as Cullen, then several more First Ones, and finally Cain emerged, laboring more slowly from the climb. Farris’s men were surrounding him, closing in. Cullen looked around in confusion, but Cain seemed to realize immediately what had happened.

Betrayal . Mikulov hesitated only a moment, and in that single flash, everything that he had done in his short life, everything he had learned on this journey came together in a moment of singular clarity. His impossible choice to leave the monastery had been the right one. The gods spoke to him all at once as lightning split the sky and thunder crashed; the sea whispered and wind blew, relaying their message of faith and strength.

The thousand and one gods had guided him with a steady hand. His sacrifice was for the greater good, and he would make it willingly, knowing that at the last moment he would once again become one with all things.

You are not ready . . . until you overcome your pride and impulsiveness. If you do not, you will make a terrible mistake.

Mikulov glanced at Cain. The old man’s eyes widened, and he shook his head, reaching out a hand and starting to speak, but Mikulov was already gone.

Deckard Cain watched helplessly as the monk gave him a slight smile and a nod, then turned to the demonic army looming all around them. He knew what Mikulov meant to do, glimpsed it in the determined set of his face, and felt it in his bones.

They were surrounded, outplayed and outmatched once again. Farris had given them away. I should have seen this, Cain thought. I should have stopped it when I had the chance. His love and his fear for Leah had blinded him to the truth.

Mikulov screamed, a low, guttural sound of triumph as he launched himself headlong into the snarling mass of demonic flesh. The monk’s fists and feet lashed out with breathtaking speed, his blade flashing as he slashed and hacked at the enemy, drawing them away from Cain and the First Ones. The demons responded en masse, their bloodlust raised to deafening levels as they attacked, but Mikulov held his own, whirling in a blur of energy as a wave of blue light crackled out like ripples in a pond and felled dozens more, pushing the rest back.

He was opening a path that led toward the Black Tower, in the process almost certainly sentencing himself to death.

Cain glanced down at the hole from which they had emerged. Feeders and other beasts were swarming up the ladder, their features contorted into terrifying snarls. He turned to Farris. “This is not the way,” he said. “You are making a terrible mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” Farris said. He motioned to Cain, Thomas, and the half dozen other First Ones who stood clustered together. “Secure them,” he said to his men.

The three men hesitated, looking uncertain. “You cannot trust a demon,” Cain said to them. “Whatever you have been promised, it is a lie. Remember what I said around the campfire. The Dark One and Belial will tear you apart once you have done what they want.”

“Farris,” one of them said, glancing at the beasts all around them, several of which had started to advance once again on their position. “I don’t think—”

“Enough!” Farris shouted, his face flushing red. “Take them now!”

The men hesitated again, giving Cain the chance he needed. He took the last bag of Egil’s powder from his sack and threw it at the tunnel opening.

The powder exploded in a blinding flash just as the first feeder stuck its head out of the hole; it fell back, screeching and on fire, taking several others with it as it careened back down the ladder. At the same time, Thomas lashed out with the side of his shovel, catching Farris in the temple. The man dropped without a sound.

The other three were now badly outnumbered. They put their hands up, shaking their heads as Cullen leveled his pitchfork at them.

“Hurry,” Cain said. Mikulov’s path was littered with the torn and broken bodies of dead creatures, but it was closing again quickly. They had only moments to spare.

The remaining men rushed through the opening, toward the Black Tower.

Mikulov was on fire. The gods’ power flowed through him, encased his limbs, and gave him the strength to fight through a sea of vicious, snapping demons. Elemental energy crackled and flashed with each blow. He moved too quickly for the human eye to process, hitting monsters from everywhere at once, slashing at them with his holy blade. Dozens fell, gushing black blood, arms and legs severed and twitching, heads rolling across the slippery stone.

But for each creature that fell, ten more took its place. In spite of himself, Mikulov began to tire.

As he decapitated a howling, red-faced overseer and its head toppled from its muscled shoulders, a scavenger’s claws raked his back, drawing blood. He turned and sliced off its arm, sending the monster howling and stumbling away, spouting gore across the backs of the fallen ones that had crept up from behind. Three of them rose up, snarling, before he whirled and sent a crackling burst of focused energy directly at them, turning their faces into black, smoking ruins.

As they fell back, shuddering, a flying insect darted in and sank its stinger into Mikulov’s shoulder. White-hot pain raced through his arm and across his chest, causing him to gasp and stagger. His heart stuttered; there was poison in the stinger. He sliced the insect in two with his blade, then crushed what was left beneath his feet.