CHAPTER TWO
THE BLADE OF MERCIUS
At seventeen, the boy Mercius was fast approaching manhood. He stood now in Asgoroth's chamber, facing the enemies that surrounded him. There were half a dozen of them, all snarling and awaiting the signal to attack. Suddenly, the leader of the pack of demons rushed forward, and the others followed.
Mercius leapt into action. Swinging the talon-tipped chain whip in one hand and the short sword in the other, he dispatched two of the demons immediately. Spinning and whirling with incredible speed, his startlingly green eyes flashed with focused power. Another demon went down with Mercius' sword through its throat before the young man spun to strike his next opponent with his whip, creating a gout of black blood from the thing's face, along with a roar of outrage and disbelief. Without pausing in his deadly dance, Mercius leapt over the demon, wrapping his whip around the thing's neck as he did. Jerking the thing backward and off its feet, he planted his sword through the demon's chest, rolling simultaneously to avoid the heavy axe the demon behind him swung mightily. Before the last gurgle of death escaped from the throat of the beast on the floor, Mercius had severed the head of the axe-wielding demon.
He spun to face his final opponent, a lizard-looking demon that stood tall on two feet with a lashing, scaled tail whipping behind him. Mercius grinned, showing the demon his even, white teeth. With a roar of rage, the thing rushed him, the talons on the hands of his four arms stretched out and slashing wildly at Mercius' head. Mercius sidestepped the thing with casual grace and lashed his sword across the demon's neck. A spray of dark blood misted into the air as the creature fell to its knees. Spinning, Mercius severed the beast's head with a clean slash of his sword, splitting the skull in two as it tumbled through the air.
Panting slightly, his the clean lines of his muscled body shining with a thin sheen of sweat, Mercius knelt and wiped the blade of his short sword on the body of the demon at his feet before sheathing it at his side. His light brown hair hung down into his face, shot through with blond streaks, and he pushed it back from his forehead so it fell in subtle waves to his shoulders.
Mercius turned to see Asgoroth staring at him. Immediately, the young man fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the stone floor. "Master," he said.
Asgoroth replied, "You have vanquished your opponents as skillfully as always, Mercius." His voice was deep and terrible, but Mercius had known it all his life, accustomed to its grating. Asgoroth walked slowly around Mercius, tapping his staff against the floor. The thing was as tall as he was, made of human bone and teeth, and covered at the top with the stretched and dried faces of his victims, still seeming to scream their agony.
"The time has come for you to prove your worthiness," the Demon Lord continued. "There is a village at the outskirts of my desert, and tonight you will take it. Bring me slaves, Mercius, kill the rest, and do not fail me."
With that, the enormous demon was leaving the chamber. Mercius waited until he heard the great double doors close behind his father before he rose from the floor.
Time to prove your worthiness, Asgoroth had said. Mercius had been told his entire life that he would someday venture out of the dungeons, to bring his sword and malice to the people that inhabited the world above. Asgoroth had convinced him that he was a new breed; an unknown scourge of the world of men. Every day since he could walk had been filled with the training that would lead up to this day, his initial test.
Mercius knew that he was skilled with any weapon that he placed his hands upon, and that he could defeat any foe sent against him in single combat. He knew, too, that Asgoroth would someday test his prowess and his loyalty. That day had finally come, and Mercius felt something flutter in his breast. He wasn't sure what it was. Excitement, maybe. Or dread. Either way, he knew he would perform as best he could in the raid to come, and would show his demon father that he was able and willing, loyal and dependable.
Something else gnawed at him, however. Something deep inside of him. He couldn't place it, and couldn't define it, but it seemed to scream from deep within his soul, telling him that something was amiss; something was not as it should be.
Violently, Mercius pushed the strange feeling away, back into his depths whence it had sprung, striding purposefully from the throne room to don his armor.
Several hours later, Mercius was awaiting Asgoroth and his instructions in the throne room. He was wearing a cuirass of black iron and a kilted skirt of stiff leather, dotted with iron lozenges. He held a simple, round helm in the crook of his arm. The bodies of his slain opponents had been cleared out of the cavernous chamber. After several moments of waiting, during which Mercius tried to isolate and define the strange feeling deep in his soul that refused to quit, Asgoroth entered through a small door behind his throne.
Mercius let none of the strange emotions he was feeling show on his face as he knelt before the Demon Lord. Asgoroth bid him rise and approach the throne on which he sat.
Across the demon's lap was a long black case of some sort. Mercius walked forward slowly, still attempting in vain to quell the undefined emotions that raged inside him. Asgoroth seemed not to notice, his full attention bent on the box in his lap that he caressed almost lovingly, though Mercius knew the demon was entirely unencumbered by such thoughts or feelings.
As Mercius approached, Asgoroth opened the case and Mercius peered silently at what it contained. What lay inside was the most hideous, beautiful weapon Mercius had ever seen. It was a broadsword, its long blade was black as the darkest night, and had demon script in blood red along its length. Its hilt was leather nearly as black as the blade. The cross-member was of solid steel with alternating bands of black and red, and tipped on each side with a spike that drew blood at the slightest touch of Mercius' finger. The pommel was the petrified skull of a small demon complete with fangs and jagged teeth, roughly the size of his fist in which false eyes of glowing embers had been placed, with another spike at the top.
Asgoroth's voice had a slight hint of awe and reverence, "It is called Illuricht. It was forged in the deepest, darkest pit of this place, where even I feel the immensity of pain. The essences of many demons were poured into its blade, and the inscription was written with the blood of the innocent, frozen there by a dark, ancient magic. Its hilt is wrapped with the flesh of a human woman, and the demon who gave his head for the pommel screamed in agony its entire existence. The sword is as fraught with evil as anything can be. It will protect your flesh, and destroy your enemies. The blade will never need sharpening. I must tell you, however, that this blade is nearly alive, and will betray you if you are not respectful of its power."
Mercius was stunned. He gripped the pommel and lifted the sword into the air. It seemed to let out a keening, moaning wail as he swept it through several arcs. It felt good and firm in his grasp, but somehow wrong, as if the blade would turn at just the wrong moment of battle out of spite. But he also felt a strange kinship with the thing. "Thank you, master. I will use it well. You will not regret this gift, and I will cherish it."
Asgoroth nodded as if Mercius' words were just what he expected. "Now, go to battle, and do what you have been trained to do."
With a nod, Mercius turned to leave, the strangeness screaming from his soul growing louder with every step he took.