***
Asgoroth, in his malice, left Mercius alone. His captors retreated, and the boy fell to the ground beside his mother’s mutilated corpse. For hours, he wept. He wept for the love he had never truly known, and the love that Amelia had harbored for so long, against all the forces aimed to destroy it. He wept for a life he had lived in ignorance, fear, and hate. He wept for what he was to become, and what he was meant to do. Mercius, covered in blood and sweat and tears, was truly miserable for the first time in his life.
Mercius' anger and remorse hardened into something that he had never felt before. There, kneeling on the blood-slicked floor, clutching the mangled, fleshless hand of his beautiful mother, he was overcome by a burning desire for death and vengeance. Throughout his life, he had been trained to be utterly devoid of emotions, with the exception of hate for the human race. But, since he had never experienced the human race, he was unable to truly despise them, he now realized. Now, however, he felt his heart race with an insatiable hunger for utter destruction, but not for humans, or any human. No, he burned with vengeance against those who had been his tutors and his trainers and his masters his entire life. It terrified him in its intensity, but he gloried in its righteousness.
He rose slowly, his numerous wounds forgotten. In the hours that he had been allowed to grieve by his mother’s side, a troop of armed warrior demons had encircled him. Their clothing and weapons were mismatched, as was the nature of demons. Some wore ragged scraps of garments, some were nude, and still others wore the pale flesh of their conquests. They held at the ready their spears, whips, chains, knives and swords. Mercius gazed coldly around at them. They did not speak, or make any move to attack him. Mercius quickly guessed their task: they were there to escort him back to his chamber, by force if necessary, and quell any outburst of rage he may have.
With a glance, Mercius saw his sword, Illuricht, leaning against the far wall of the chamber. He puzzled at why it hadn’t yet been removed, and decided that maybe the demons were afraid or reverent of it. Regardless, it was a long way away, and there were a dozen demons intent on keeping him from it. He longed to feel its weight in his hand again, and it seemed to call to him deep in his heart.
Mercius, making a decision that he would ponder for the rest of his days, said this to the demons that surrounded him: “I have no quarrel with any of you. Asgoroth will answer for what has happened here, but I do not wish to draw you into our dispute. I am leaving this chamber, and this place, now. Should any of you wish to retreat, do so now. But if you bar my way, every last one of you will die. Make your choice.”
The demons, without exception, laughed and snarled at him. Their loyalty to their master was complete and unbreakable. They had all heard tales of Mercius' skill with weapons, but none were frightened of this naked bloody human boy that didn’t have so much as a dagger. Mercius slowly turned in the direction of the black sword near the arched doorway of the chamber, and walked toward it. With his first step, the demons in front of him raised their weapons menacingly. Mercius didn’t stop or hesitate, but closed the gap between himself and the demons casually, seeming to believe that they would simply move out of his way.
As he came within striking distance of the closest demon--a fleshless man-figure with snapping jaws and bulging eyes--the thing raised his long-tipped spear to Mercius' throat. With a lightning move, Mercius had the spear in his grasp, and snapped his open palm into the sinuous face of the demon. Before it could recover from the shock, the boy had driven the tip of the spear through one of the demon’s bulging eyeballs, and through the back of its head. As he wrenched the pitted steel from the thing's ruined face, the others had snapped out of their momentary surprise, and were on him with fierce determination.
They attacked not as a single force, but as eleven individuals bent on killing the human abomination. They ran at Mercius one or two at a time, with snarling hatred and consuming rage. Mercius, in his determination, fought them all as they came with cold calculation. He did not hate these creatures, but they were impeding him, and he killed them as necessary. He knew all of their weaknesses and strengths. Demons do not die easily, but they can be killed, he knew. He ducked a dagger thrust with liquid smoothness, and plunged his spear into the beast’s side. Gripping the dagger as the thing fell, he spun and hurled it into an approaching demon’s face. It hit in the eye a thing that was more lizard than human, and it shrieked hideously and swung wildly with its double-headed ax, until Mercius slammed his spear into the back of its head, and it fell twitching to the ground. As Mercius spun to face his next opponent, he was just in time to slip out of the way of a brutally jagged blade that sliced across his bicep. The boy looked almost casual as he slammed his spear into the head of his attacker, only to wrench it free and spin to decapitate the next foe. His blood hot and pounding, Mercius moved from demon to demon, picking up weapons as he could and when he needed. He was injured several times, but was always quick enough to save himself from being destroyed.
The last demon fell at Mercius' feet, twitching violently. The thing was dead, even if it hadn’t admitted it yet. The boy dropped the dagger and the taloned whip that he held, and moved to the door of the chamber. There, he strapped the scabbard of Illuricht to his naked back, and pulled the blade free. As he gazed into the blackened blade, the blood that dripped from his hand was drawn upward through the hilt. The sword drank deeply of the demon blood which mingled with Mercius' own. The blood ran into the script that covered the blade, and created streaks along the empty parts of the blackness. Mercius watched grimly as all of the blood was drawn from his hands, and the blade was subtly transformed. When it was done, the thing seemed to be alive in his grasp, and grateful. Mercius shivered slightly at this thought, and pushed it from his mind.
With an iron heart, Mercius moved from the chamber. He had the air of someone out for a casual stroll, but every muscle of his body was tense and ready. His eyes roved constantly, scanning the dimly lit halls of his home, his prison, his life. He knew vaguely where he was going, from the previous night, and his only plan was to get to the doorway to the outside world no matter what. Beyond that, he dared not think. Every time his mind wandered into what he would do once outside, he shut the thought out and focused again on his surroundings. He was as afraid as he had ever been, and mostly because he knew that eventually he would have to confront this question, and come up with an answer. He knew that he was almost certainly doomed to die on his way out, but even if he should escape, what then? He refused to focus on it. Figure that out when, and if, you get there, he told himself.
After what must have been hours, Mercius finally reached a chamber that he remembered clearly from the night before. It was not nearly as large or foreboding as Asgoroth’s chamber. It was dimly lit, as all the dungeon was, and had no throne. There were three doors in the room: the one through which he entered, one leading back down to the cells of the slaves, and one leading on, to the passage that would shortly take him outside. He walked toward the latter quickly, holding his blade at the ready, for he sensed some impending doom.
His senses were correct. When he was halfway through the gloomy room, Asgoroth himself entered. He had his beasts with him, but that was all. Mercius was surprised. He knew that by now word would have reached the master of the dungeon of the treachery that had taken place in his throne room. Mercius expected a horde of demons to rip his soul from his body and tear him limb from limb. But Asgoroth had only his wretched beasts as a retinue.
The great demon moved with calm purpose to the doorway for which Mercius was headed. He stood still and tall, directly in front of the exit, looking down at the boy with a mixture of contempt and anger.
Mercius, in his fright and his hate, said to the demon, “I am no longer in your charge. I am leaving this place. You have blinded me from the day I was born, I see now, and I want no more part of your wickedness, although I am ju
st now starting to see it as such. Step aside, Asgoroth.” His words sounded hollow and weak even to himself. Asgoroth’s expression didn’t change, and he did not move; he just stared at his apprentice for several moments.
Finally, he spoke: “I will give you one last chance, boy. Sheathe your sword, return to your chamber, and all will be forgotten. If you choose to disobey me this last time, I will take an eternity in killing you. Your pain will be endless, and your soul will be feasted upon. The grief you know now at the death of your pitiful mother will be as nothing compared to the sorrow I will heap upon you. Obey, human, or suffer as no human ever has.”
The very sound of Asgoroth’s voice sent chills through Mercius' spine. His knees trembled, and his hand gripped his sword until his knuckles were white. “I will not obey,” Mercius whispered, believing that they would be his last coherent words.
Asgoroth gave a sigh of regret, and said, “Very well. I saw in you the answer to the plague of humanity, but now you will scream your agonies for an eternity. You could have been the greatest thing that happened to this pathetic planet, but instead you choose torture and death, a thousand times over. So be it.” With that he lifted a finger ever so slightly, and his beasts instantly rushed forward. With steel in his heart, and demon-steel in his hand, Mercius made one last stand of defiance. He may be tortured and destroyed, but he would go down fighting, not cowering.
He met the hideous, snarling beasts with a look in his eye of grim determination mixed with the coldest fear. As he struck one of the slobbering creatures on an outstretched limb, the other latched painfully to his leg. While the first beast was crouching for a lunging second attack, Mercius rammed his blade into the one attached to his leg, bringing forth a hissing shriek of pain. Just in time, he dropped to the floor and rolled under the beast as it flew into the air. As it was above him, its scaled belly streaking by, Mercius slashed his sword upward and into the thing. It landed in a heap, and did not move. The other, with a deep sword wound in its side, limped toward him again, steeling itself for one last attack before it was defeated.
Asgoroth watched expressionlessly as the beast approached Mercius warily. It leapt suddenly, but Mercius was ready for the attack, and stepped quickly aside, bringing his black blade down in an arc on the things neck as it flew past him. The beast landed lifelessly behind Mercius, its head bouncing several times before coming to rest against the wall.
Mercius put a hand to his wounded leg, and panted. In his murderous rage he had not had time to feel the weight of exhaustion. Now, bleeding again, he felt as if he hadn’t slept or eaten in days, which, he now realized suddenly, he hadn't. He locked eyes with Asgoroth for what seemed like an eternity. There seemed to be a fire in the demon’s gaze that Mercius had never seen before. Asgoroth was always murderous and hate-filled, but now his stare pierced daggers of fear into the boy’s heart.
Asgoroth glanced at the dead beasts behind Mercius and sighed briefly. He was incapable of emotions other than hate and anger and malice, but he had lost a pair of loyal beasts that would never question, and were hard to replace. He turned back to Mercius and gripped his scepter tighter. “You have betrayed me for the last time, slave,” he said, his voice dripping with malice and disgust. It was the first time that Mercius had ever been called ‘slave,’ and it startled him. He knew now, that he had either to escape, or die trying. Asgoroth’s leniency was extremely limited, and Mercius had crossed that line long ago. The demon continued: “The blade you used to slaughter my hounds should have gone to someone more worthy. And so it shall, after I remove it from your disloyal hand. Illuricht was designed with great purpose, and you have destroyed the chance you had at riding it to the height of its glory.”
Asgoroth walked slowly and unconcernedly toward Mercius, his hideous staff thumping on the ground with every other step. Mercius had nowhere else to go, as the demon was blocking his way out, and was nearly overcome by fear: its paralyzation crept slowly up his legs and into his belly. When the demon was nearly to him and already towering above, he raised his scepter and swung viciously at Mercius' head. In that moment, he saw the details in that wretched weapon: the teeth and fingernails lodged in the heart of whole faces stretched tight, the clumps of hair sprouting at random from unlikely body parts.
The head of the staff arched toward him with incredible speed. Mercius, at last released from his paralysis, and compelled only by fear and instinct, dropped and rolled from the path of the thing. Jumping to his feet, Mercius stared as Asgoroth spun, roared ferociously, and charged suddenly. Then it was the boy defending himself desperately against the demon’s slashing staff. The thing seemed to have come alive in Asgoroth’s rage, and indeed, Mercius heard a distant wailing as of captured prisoners in a forgotten tomb. The wicked scepter of Asgoroth held up to the black blade of Illuricht, much to the boy‘s surprise and dismay. The great sword seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the staff, and Mercius was driven back, step by step, until he abruptly felt a stone wall at his back. No place to go, and the demon’s rage in full force trying to bash the skull of the boy, Mercius was more desperate and afraid than ever he had been. Blocking instinctively, Mercius felt his muscles failing and his courage withering.
Then, in the midst of the violence he was enduring, and the painful death that threatened him with every beat of his heart, his mother’s face sprang unsummoned into his mind. Her beauty, her love, and her bloody murdered corpse, as it had been in the end. With this image came new resolve, and a new swell of anger, hatred and rage. Mercius, blocking the savage sweeps of Asgoroth’s demon wand, was now able to cast the occasional offensive strike. Still, he failed to make any headway, and with the newfound courage and rage inside him, mixed with the desperation of a cornered animal, Mercius let out a snarling cry, and summoned something from deep within him. He knew not what it was, or where it came from, but a new power flooded through his blood. He could see every detail of his surroundings with infinite clarity, and felt as one with everything. With this new strength and clarity, Mercius lashed out at his attacker.
There was a sudden thunderclap in the chamber, accompanied by a red flash of light that temporarily blinded him.
When his vision had cleared, Mercius found that he was on his knees, the strange power gone from him, and Asgoroth was slowly getting to his feet halfway across the chamber. Without taking time to recover from shock or wonder at what had just happened, Mercius darted toward the door, leaping over the rising form of the demon. As he entered the stone hall leading from the room, he heard a terrifying cry of rage from Asgoroth, and a great rumbling. When he turned he expected to see the demon closing on him quickly, bent on rendering his flesh from his bones. What he saw instead was the mouth of the tunnel crumbling behind him.
Asgoroth had pulled the wall of the chamber down in his rage.
Now, with his heart racing and threatening to burst from his chest, his mind numb and confused, his muscles aching, Mercius ran for the door, the world, his life. He ran with demon speed, and came eventually to the exit of the dungeon. The amazement he had felt the previous day when he had left his home for the first time was now a distant memory. He came into the world, and was blinded by the brilliance of the rising sun. Thrusting his hand up to shield his eyes, Mercius stumbled on. He was in the desert. Demon territory, he knew, and it was nearly as deadly as the dungeon itself. All he could think to do was to follow the path that the hunting party had taken the night before. This time, he had no beast upon which to ride, he was nearly falling over with exhaustion and hunger, not to mention the hundreds of lacerations and bruises that laced his flesh, and he was hunted. Still he carried on. Naked and bloody, he carried on.
Mercius had no more energy left to concern himself with what he was to do next: he would run until he found a place to hide, he could run no more, or he was killed. And so he did. He ran and ran and ran as the sun climbed slowly through the sky, and
the heat seemed to scorch his blistering, naked flesh.
As the sun began its descent and blinded him yet again with its intensity, the terrain began to change. The blackened desert gave way slowly and grudgingly to the trees and shrubs he vaguely remembered from the night before. As the ground began to rise in rolling hills, and the trees thickened around him, Mercius fell to his knees, completely spent and on the brink of hysteria. He clawed himself into the hollow space between the roots of a great tree, and passed out.