Demon Lord
Book I of the Demon Lord Series
T C Southwell
Copyright © 2012 by T C Southwell
Disclaimer
Please note that this is the first book of a series, but the remainder of the series is not available for free.
This series is dedicated to my mother.
Prologue
Chapter One – Daughter of Light
Chapter Two – Son of Darkness
Chapter Three – The First Ward
Chapter Five – Earth Demon
Chapter Six – Water Demon
Chapter Seven – The Isle of Lume
Chapter Eight – The Third Ward
Chapter Nine – Air Demon
Chapter Ten – The Fourth Ward
Chapter Eleven – The City
Chapter Twelve – The Old Kingdom
Chapter Thirteen – Revelation
Chapter Fourteen – Sacrifice
Chapter Fifteen – Betrayal
Chapter Sixteen – The Sixth Ward
Chapter Seventeen – The Seventh Ward
Chapter Eighteen – Ascension of the Black Lord
Prologue
The seeress gripped the edge of her scrying glass, her brows knotting as her throat closed with horror. The acolyte who watched over Elder Mother while she was absorbed in her scrying hurried to her side and put a hand on the seeress’ shoulder.
“What is it, Mother?” she whispered.
Elder Mother Ellese sat unmoving, her gaze locked on the faraway event visible only to her within the glass. After several moments, she sat back and drew a deep, shuddering breath, blinking.
“The Black Lord!” Her voice rasped with dread, and she stared into the middle distance, stunned. “The evil has finally found a way to enter this world; to break the wards that the ancient wizards set.”
The acolyte’s hands bunched in her dress, wringing it. “How?”
“When will he come?”
Ellese focussed on the girl. “Not for a time yet. He still has to grow; to be taught about the evil powers and their use. Twenty years, if we are fortunate. We have time to prepare, at least.” The acolyte sagged, and Elder Mother added, “Do not look so relieved, child. You will still be here.” She stood up. “Send a message to all the elder mothers. We must have a meeting to plan our defence.”
The girl nodded and hurried out, and Ellese crossed her study to the window, her eyes blind to the thick blanket of midwinter snow that covered the garden. Gusts wafted falling flakes into swirling patterns, brushing against the windows, sliding down to gather on the ledge. She shivered, but not with cold, for the fire that roared in the hearth warmed the cosy room with its wooden panelling and thick, woollen maroon curtains.
Her desk occupied the corner opposite the stone fireplace. The scrying glass stood on it, clear now. Tidily arranged papers occupied the desk’s corners, and an ink well and writing plumes stood at its centre. The cold light from the windows mingled with the fire’s warm glow to illuminate the myriad ancient tomes that stocked the bookshelves. The room’s normality vanished as she recalled the horrible vision she had just witnessed.
The birth had taken place deep within the Underworld, in a great cavern formed by magic aeons ago, the rock warped by the will of the god who had created it. Huge columns of solidified magma had upheld a vaulted roof of stretched, striated rock, cooled in the midst of its oozing, patterned with smears and blobs. The inner fire had shone from cracks in the walls and floor, throwing lurid light in twisted patterns. Fire demons in true form had cast green and orange light.
The demons’ chanting had all but drowned out the woman’s screams as she died on the stone altar, her belly torn open as the Black Lord had ripped the baby from her womb. The boy’s cries had stopped when the Black Lord inscribed a dark rune upon his head, and his eyes had glazed under the evil power’s influence. The Lord of the Underworld had handed the bloody infant to a minion, who had wrapped him in a cloth. By then, the child’s mother had been dead, her blood pooled on the floor.
The infant stood no chance against the Underworld’s corruption. He would be warped, moulded as the Black Lord wished, and none could save him from his fate. Ellese’s heart ached when she recalled the tiny child, slick with his mother’s blood. He was doomed to be a helpless pawn in the Black Lord’s hands. She had no doubt he would suffer terribly, but far worse than his horrific birth had been the ritual the Black Lord had performed before he had torn the infant from his mother’s womb.