Prince of Darkness
Prince of Darkness
Arc of Radiance: Book V
***
Blake Arthur Peel
PRINCE OF DARKNESS
Arc of Radiance: Book V
Blake Arthur Peel
Copyright © 2018 by Blake Arthur Peel. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the author.
https://blakearthurpeel.com
Cover art by Rob Erto
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prince of Darkness (Arc of Radiance, #5)
Prologue | The High Magus & the Prince of Darkness
Chapter One | Owyn
Chapter Two | Elias
Chapter Three | Zara
Chapter Four | Owyn
Chapter Five | Zara
Chapter Six | Talon
Chapter Seven | Owyn
Chapter Eight | Zara
Chapter Nine | Owyn
Chapter Ten | Zara
Chapter Eleven | Talon
Chapter Twelve | Owyn
Chapter Thirteen | Elias
Chapter Fourteen | Zara
Chapter Fifteen | Owyn
Chapter Sixteen | Zara
Chapter Seventeen | Owyn
Chapter Eighteen | The Prophetess
Chapter Nineteen | Elias
Chapter Twenty | Zara
Chapter Twenty-One | Elias
Chapter Twenty-Two | Owyn
Chapter Twenty-Three | Zara
Chapter Twenty-Four | Elias
Chapter Twenty-Five | Owyn
Chapter Twenty-Six | Talon
Chapter Twenty-Seven | Zara
Chapter Twenty-Eight | Owyn
Chapter Twenty-Nine | Elias
Chapter Thirty | Zara
Chapter Thirty-One | Elias
Chapter Thirty-Two | Owyn
Chapter Thirty-Three | Elias
Chapter Thirty-Four | Zara
Chapter Thirty-Five | Elias
Epilogue | Elias
About the Author
For Wyatt,
You were born when I started writing this book. The sleepless nights helped me finish it.
Map
Prologue
The High Magus & the Prince of Darkness
Something isn’t right.
Gasping in pain from my position on the ground, I attempt to sit up as a faint magical tremor courses through my body.
Energy. Power. Fear.
Oh, Light, I think, panic gripping me like a vice. Something is happening... something terrible.
In an instant the ranger is beside me, his calloused and blood-splattered hands taking me gently as I struggle to get up. “You must rest, High Magus,” he says, his deep voice a rumble. “You’ve been badly wounded. We need to have a surgeon look at you right away.”
“Nonsense,” I reply through gritted teeth. “It would be a waste of time. I’m dying, ranger. Now help me up.”
His slate grey eyes stare at me uncertainly for a moment, then he lifts me, strong arms picking me up off the marble floor. I stand unsteadily at first, my legs shaking from pain and loss of blood, but the insistent magical energy within is enough to keep me from collapsing. My hands go immediately to my abdomen, which bears a grisly wound where the king had stabbed me. Even without medicinal training, I understand that most of my bleeding is internal.
The blade went far too deep.
Staggering forward, I immediately begin making for the palace window, my steps resolute despite the weakness threatening to overcome me.
On the floor to my right, the king lies in an ever-growing pool of gore, his black eyes open in shock as he stares up at the ceiling, a terrible slash across his throat.
No less than he deserved, I think without the slightest feeling of remorse. You reap what you sow... and you, King Aethelgar, sowed nothing but misery and death.
The doors to the entryway burst open and a handful of haggard-looking Nightingales rush inside. From beyond the portal, palace guards shout in alarm and curse. The rebels waste no time in locking the doors behind them and pulling over furniture to barricade their pursuers from gaining entry.
“I’m sorry, Protector,” one of them says, glancing furtively at Elias. “We could not hold them. I fear that we are trapped!”
Protector?
Elias curses under his breath, then rushes to help the Nightingales in their efforts to bar the doors.
I continue moving toward the window, using the last of my strength to open the curtains and lean heavily against the sill. Before me stretches a beautiful view of Tarsys, the sprawling cityscape hazy in the grey skies of winter. Rising like a spike directly in the forefront is the Pillar of Radiance, its top, as always, shooting a beam of light directly into the sky. It continues fueling the Arc of Radiance as it has for a thousand years.
“Everything seems normal,” I mumble to myself dazedly. “But what of this warning in my heart?”
Suddenly, there is a bright flash of light coming from the top of the tower, followed by a distant rumble like thunder. The brilliance is almost blinding, and it only grows brighter with every passing second. Then, when I am about to shield my eyes from the illumination, an immense boom resounds as the pinnacle erupts, exploding outward with a force unlike anything I have ever seen. Blue flame and stone spray out in the blast, and when the smoke clears, the top of the tower which contains the Heart of Light is simply gone.
My stomach twists, mouth gaping in horror as the light winks out, the beam feeding into the Arc vanishing in an instant.
"It has finally happened," I whisper weakly.
Now, the ranger and the Nightingale warriors are all standing beside me, staring out of the window in shock and awe.
“What in the Light was that?” The grizzled man asks, gravelly voice tight with alarm.
Just as the words leave his mouth, there is a dreadful sound of stone rending as the Pillar of Radiance begins to buckle, the middle of the enormous tower breaking and collapsing in on itself. Even from our vantage in the palace, we can hear the screams of the horrified citizens sounding from the streets below. The tallest tower in the city – in the entire world – cracks and begins to fall, knocking down the Azure Tower beside it and sending up an extraordinary amount of dust into the air. The resulting tremor seems to shake the very earth as entire neighborhoods are crushed beneath the rubble.
Then, after a few heart-stopping moments, there is finally silence, the calm only broken by the hysterical cries of the terrified people now flocking to the streets.
Gasping, I find that my legs can no longer support the weight of my body. The ranger catches me before I can completely collapse and lowers me down to the cold marble floor.
“That,” I rasp, answering his question, “is the sound of our destruction, ranger. Now, the entire kingdom is doomed.”
I begin to cough, warm, coppery blood rising up into my mouth as my insides convulse painfully. The banging and the clamor outside the king’s chambers has ceased, and around me, the Nightingales whisper to each other fearfully, uncertainty hanging in the air like the cloud of dust now choking the city.
“Light preserve us,” the ranger murmurs, his eyebrows knitting together uneasily. “The Arc is destroyed. What are we to do now?”
“The only thing we can do,” I reply, licking my dry lips with my bloodstained
tongue. “We fight.”
Weakly, I raise a finger and point to the king’s writing desk on the other side of the room. “Parchment... hurry. I need to write a message.”
Still cradling me, Elias nods to one of the Nightingales who jumps to do as I command. Within seconds, he is back with a scrap of paper, a quill and a jar of ink. As I struggle to sit up, I take the quill and dip with a shaky hand, then use the hard floor as a desktop to write. The words are scrawling but still legible, and convey the dying wishes of my heart:
To whom it may concern,
I, Sylvania Holdyn, Head of the Circle and High Magus of the Conclave of Mages, am now dead. I write to the remaining members of the Conclave on this, the hour of our judgment, to lay forth my last will concerning these events.
The day we have long feared has finally arrived. The Arc of Radiance has been destroyed. Now, more than ever, it is imperative that we put our differences aside and unite ourselves to prevent the annihilation of our species.
King Aethelgar is dead and the Pillar of Radiance, the center of magical governance, has fallen. It now falls to the surviving mages, the Nightingales, and the lords of Tarsys to rally the denizens of Tarsynium and prepare for the invasion that will inevitably come.
The bearer of this message is Elias Keen, a ranger with a complicated history. He was at my side when I was murdered and has my trust. He will play a vital role as liaison between the Nightingales and the rangers and must not be dismissed. Include him and his allies on any vital decisions moving forward.
If any members of the Circle survive, I urge you to elect a new High Magus immediately and rally the mages. Your leadership now is more important than it has ever been.
Hope still remains. Cling to the Light and do all you can to fight the encroaching shadow.
With honor, truth, and wisdom,
Sylvania
I scratch my name hastily at the bottom of the missive and fall back into Elias' arms, mumbling for the ink to be sanded before the letter is folded. Then, a bout of wet coughing overtakes me, filling my mouth with even more blood.
When I am able, I gaze up at the ranger with bleary eyes. "Take that to the Conclave. Give it to a member of the Circle if any still lives, and aid the mages in any way you can. They will no doubt need all the help they can get."
Elias nods, his expression hard as stone.
"When they strike... they will come for Tarsys. Everyone will flee to the city. It's defenses... must be made strong. See that this gets done."
Again, he quietly nods.
"Good," I reply, closing my eyes for the barest instant. Sleep suddenly feels like a wonderful refuge from this world of darkness and pain. However, I do not let myself slumber. Forcing my eyelids open, I give him one last, meaningful look. "Ranger... you must unite them. The assassination of the king will not be easy to overcome. Bring the bickering factions together... and forge an alliance. This is... the only way."
This time, he reaches down and squeezes my nerveless hand. "I swear," he replies firmly.
The corner of my mouth twitches up into a small smile.
Closing my eyes again, I feel the sleepiness wash over me like the water of a warm bath. I wish I could have saved them, I think drowsily. Like Sophronia Kent of old. I wish I could have stood before the Prince of Darkness himself, if only to spit in his eye...
I take a long, shuddering breath, then lightly drift away, embracing the warmth that settles over me.
The last word that comes to my mind is 'hope'.
“THE ARC HAS FALLEN, my Prince,” hisses Naz, his quavering voice betraying his unbridled glee. “The human zealots have upheld their end of the bargain. Now, the way is clear.”
My eyes snap open as I regard my most trusted servant, his armored figure kneeling before me and his horned head bowed in reverence. Like the other gorgons in the army, he is armed and ready to do combat at a moment’s notice, his bloodlust so close to the surface that it is almost oozing out of him. My lips curl back into an anticipatory grin at his words.
“I know,” I reply at length, pushing myself up from my carved obsidian throne and descending the steps. “I have felt it.”
Like a boil being lanced, the protective dome shielding the last kingdom of man has been burst. Its energies have at long last been released back into the universe. Now, after a thousand years, final judgment can be carried out on this tiny, insignificant planet.
And my place among my brethren will finally be secured.
As I reach the bottom of the steps, Naz glances up at me, his glowing eyes eager to begin the work of death. “Shall I muster the legions, my Prince?”
“Yes,” I reply, still grinning. “But first, there is something that I must do. Bring forth one of the maidens – one whose mind has not yet been broken. It is time for the Light to be blotted from this world once and for all.”
A look of understanding passes over Naz’s face, then he leaps to his feet, a wicked smile spreading across his features that mirrors my own. “As you command.”
He races out of the enormous tent, pushing through the flaps and running into the camp proper, leaving me alone in the comforting darkness within.
These years have been long, I muse, staring into the flickering green flames of one of the two braziers smoldering in the center of my command tent. So long that I doubt many of the humans even remember my name. Well... they will remember soon enough. They will remember, they will fear, and eventually, they will die.
My elder brothers, the other demonic princes, have long abandoned Byhalya, moving on to other words to conquer and consume. They considered this conquest a partial failure for an age, having wrongly assumed that the humans’ magical barrier was too strong to be broken. Now, their youngest brother Asmodeus, Prince of Darkness and the Eleventh Circle of Hell, will finally bring the rebellious race of men to heel.
It is a victory so sweet that I can almost taste it.
Before long, Naz makes his way back into the tent and stops before me, bowing his head. “The maiden has been retrieved, my prince. She is awaiting your pleasure outside.”
“Good,” I reply evenly. “Now, gather together my generals. They must see what is to come next.”
Once again, the gorgon goes out obediently to do my will.
Feeling the lust for battle course through my veins, I cast my eyes back to where my sword is leaning against the side of my throne. Wailing Death, a name for which it is well suited, was forged in hellfire and tempered with the blood of a hundred innocents. Many of my enemies, and even some of my allies, have felt the keenness of its sting.
I walk over and pick the blade up, feeling its familiar weight in my grip.
It feels good.
Wailing Death in hand, I then make my way to the tent flap and step out into the boiling rays of the sun. The brightness stings my eyes, but I do not let my discomfort show upon my face. The result of our magic may have scarred this world and turned it into an eternal desert, but that doesn’t grant me leave to show weakness in front of my troops.
In life, there is only strength. It is the only attribute that matters to the R’Laar.
Quivering on the ground before me is the slave girl, her hands bound behind her back and a gag shoved into her mouth. She is flanked on either side by gorgon guards, and as I approach she looks up at me in terror, tears filling her red-rimmed eyes.
I stare down at her coldly, noting with satisfaction the way she averts her eyes from my gaze.
Humans are so weak, I think to myself derisively. They do not deserve to inherit this world. They deserve only to be dominated.
Within moments my generals arrive, their armor clinking and their expressions blazing with desire. They kneel as soon as they enter my presence, gorgons and ... and even a hook horror, a variety of demonic cousins all dipping their heads low in a sign of respect.
I nod in turn, stabbing the point of my sword into the parched earth before me and resting my hands on its pommel. “Brothers,” I declare,
lifting my voice so that all in the area may hear, “the day of retribution has finally come. The Arc of Radiance has fallen, making the way clear for our mighty horde, and even now the humans quail at our coming. The hour of the R’Laar is here.”
The generals howl in delight and beat their fists and claws against their breastplates, which only causes the human girl to shrink down more. In the periphery, droves of my warriors come forth, drawn by the commotion and the sound of my speech.
“These wretches,” I continue, gesturing at the cowering woman, “cling to their Light and their feeble magic, hiding like worms beneath a stone from the predators above. It is time that we take what is ours by right of strength. It is time, my brothers, that we take their precious Light away from them!”
Reaching out, I place the palm of my hand on the young woman’s forehead, my fingers extending into her tangled black hair. She resists my touch at first, vainly trying to pull away as I reach for her but my movements prove too swift, my grasp too strong for her to avoid. As soon as my flesh touches hers I can feel the essence of her soul, the life force pulsing throughout her frail human body. It is the power that inhabits all living things, an energy that the R’Laar learned to harvest long ago. For a moment I savor it, enjoying the vibrant throb of her beating heart.
Then, I begin to reap.
The life force is sucked out of her, like water being absorbed by the thirsty desert air. It transfers from her body to mine, running through my hand and up into my blood stream, filling me with strength beyond that of my natural state. She lets out a strangled gasp as the energy leaves her, her flesh growing cold and her eyes rolling back into her skull. Soon, she begins to wither and die, the color of her skin fading to a dull grey.
Within seconds I release her head, letting the now shriveled husk of her body fall limply to the dirt. Remorse, pity, guilt... these are the emotions of the weak. I feel nothing for the nameless woman’s death.
Instead, I focus on the nexus of power now oscillating within me.
Like tendrils of green lightning it flickers at the tips of my fingers, causing my sharp, filed nails to glow with an emerald light. Then, without preamble, I thrust my hand into the air and begin uttering the ancient words of power from the very first of the R’Laar.