DEVOURING DARKNESS
Bradley Counter
Copyright 2013 Bradley Counter
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Pronunciation Guide
Contact Info
PROLOGUE
He sat motionless near the summit of the great mountain. A human could not have seen very far through the gray, sunless sky to the world below, but he was not human. His keen, demon eyes could see for miles from his current perch. Far below, he could see them running, fleeing in sheer terror from him and his terrible power.
Let them run.
He had killed hundreds of their filthy kind already, but he had lost all interest in killing. Looking down at his hands, he could almost see the boy's blood on them; could almost feel it. The child he had slain. A tragic mistake, a moment of unrestrained bloodlust gone wrong, but it was done. He could not change what had happened though he yearned for things to be different.
Is this what I've become, a mindless slayer of children? I truly am a demon.
His inhuman hearing alerted him to the approach of the others. He could hear them scurrying up toward him, but he didn't care. They were like mindless pawns looking for a new king to serve. They would be helpless without him in this desolate world, but his thoughts always drifted back to the boy. The boy he had killed.
Is this how it's supposed to be, the weak perish while the strong linger? Is that really the only law of this world; the only law of The Nightlands?
CHAPTER 1
The sound of heavy footfalls approaching instantly woke Garen, and, though he remained lying on the cold, stone floor, he was fully alert. He'd quickly acquired the skill after being captured and dragged to his cell six months ago. Many unspoken rules existed within the prison, but it was, above all else, a prison ruled by constant fear and unspeakable terror.
“Wake up and get back to work!” shouted the hoarse, utterly merciless voice of a demon.
Garen quickly rose to his feet with the other slaves in his cell and looked over at the demon taking great care not to make eye contact. He knew that that was one of the unspoken rules: don't look them in the eye. Doing so was an invitation to a horrible, and immediate, death.
The demon, only one of his many captors, wasn't even slightly human. Its body was covered in rough, dark burgundy skin that was devoid of any hair. Twin rows of tiny horns protruded from the top of its head and continued down along its spine to the small of its back. The demon's misshapen body reminded Garen vaguely of a gorilla: all arms and torso with stubby little legs.
“Hurry up,” the demon shouted and gestured to the man standing right beside Garen. “You, come get the glowstones.”
The man only hesitated for a moment and then strode forward nervously to take the bucket of glowing, white crystals from the demon's outstretched, clawed hand. As he grasped the bucket, the man briefly looked into the demon's pale yellow eyes and then quickly down again, but it was too late.
Hate flashed across the demon's face and it opened its enormous gash of a mouth that ran from ear to ear across its hideous face. Garen barely saw its jagged, razor teeth before it lunged forward and latched onto the terrified man's throat. The man's hands shot up reflexively, and he feebly tried to fight the demon off. It was useless, like the strength of a child pitted against that of a grown man.
Garen turned away from the grisly scene, but could do nothing to block out the sound of tearing flesh as the demon shredded the man's throat. The man's pained cry immediately became a raspy gurgle. Moments later, a sudden meaty thud marked the end of the man's life, but only the beginning of the demon's meal.
“Get to work, now!” the demon shouted between bites.
The rest of the humans fled the cell to begin the day's long, hard labor. Garen quickly bent and gathered up the glowstones trying to ignore the wet sounds of the demon's feast. As long as he was swift and didn't linger the demon would not pay him any mind. Lifting the bucket with a muffled grunt, he hurried down the tunnel after the others.
Just as any other day their task was the same: the humans were to dig as far as possible as fast as possible into the strange, black rock. A few slaves used crude, iron picks to break apart rock while the rest hauled it away by hand. With only a handful of glowstones to light their way and just their bare hands to carry the broken rock, the task was exceedingly difficult. The constant fear of death and dismemberment drove them all to work at a frantic pace. The possibility of being crushed in one of the frequent cave-ins only made things worse.
No one bothered to tell them why they were digging or what they were digging for and none of the humans dared to ask. They each simply took hold of one of the small glowstones that gave off as much light as a candle and descended into the oppressive dark depths. The ever-present fear steadily increased as they delved deeper into the dark tunnel with their demon tormentors close behind.
The closer that they got to the end of the tunnel, the harder it became to breathe. Every step of their crudely sandaled, and in some cases bare, feet kicked up dark clouds from the tunnel floor. The air became thick with dust and ash and tiny flakes of the black stone that they were constantly breaking.
Once the air had become severely dusty, a few of the others began coughing somewhere behind him and Garen held his breath. That too was likely breaking a rule of some sort. He suspected that any sign of weakness meant you were no longer fit to work, but you were still good enough to eat.
Please stop before it's too late.
Garen tried to ignore the persistent hacking and coughing behind him and focus on walking down the tunnel. When the coughing stopped suddenly and was replaced by wet, ripping sounds, he shuddered. The day had just started and already several people were dead; murdered without reason or any sort of mercy.
I couldn't do anything to help them. Why is this happening? When will it end?
Hoping to distract himself, he turned his attention to the tunnel around him. The demons required that the path be made at least nine feet high and wide enough for six men to walk abreast, but Garen had no idea why. The demons were only slightly larger than any of the slaves, so it made no sense for them to need such a large tunnel. He could only guess that at some point they would move something large through the tunnel, but he had no idea what.
From the time that Garen had first been brought to the tunnel, about six months’ time had passed, and as far as he could tell, the tunnel had been extended down into the rock by about a mile. He was never allowed beyond the rough cell where they were kept at night so he had no way of knowing how far down they were to start, but he could guess at their progress from there. He guessed that they managed to cut through about 20 to 30 feet of stone per day.
The stone they had to dig through was extremely hard and proved to hinder them every step of the way. Black and heavy like no other stone, it weighed as much as lead, but was teeming with veins of silver and gold ore. The walls seemed alive with the constant flicker of light from the glowstones glinting
off of the exposed chunks of metal. At any other time and place, such a sight would have been beautiful and wondrous, but it was easily subdued by the reality of fear and terror that stalked them through the darkness.
Every once in a while, as they broke away the stubborn black stone a pocket of glowstones was opened that shone like a roaring fire. It was a rare occurrence, and was awe-inspiring even in the midst of fear. The glowstones were quickly broken apart, however, at the command of the demons. The white, glowing shards were carried away never to be seen again, much to the lament of Garen and the other humans.
Humans.
It still bothered Garen to think of himself like that. To be labeled simply by race and treated with such hatred and animosity seemed harsh and cruel, but a single glance at his captors or the screams of another dying prisoner was all that was necessary for him to remember; we are different. Even the cruelest of humans could hardly compare to what the demons would do on a daily basis.
People don't even treat their enemies in the cold, heartless fashion of the demons. As tools. As slaves. As food.
Arriving at the end of the tunnel the slaves set to work. The few like Garen that were diggers grabbed the picks off the ground from where they had fallen the previous day. The picks that they were given to use were little more than rough, iron hammers that came to a point instead of a flat head. No miner in his right mind would choose to use such a crude tool for breaking hard stone, but Garen and the others had no choice.
With his glowstone on the tunnel floor in front of him and his pick held firmly in both hands, Garen ground away the hours. Sweat dripped from the thick, black hair atop his head that had grown wild and shaggy and ran down through his dirty beard causing it to stick to his face. He instinctively knew that his emerald eyes had lost the luster that they had held in that seemingly long ago time in which he'd been free. The flesh of his body was stretched tight across muscle and bone, hunger and rigorous labor having long ago stripped his body of all traces of fat or excess. His body was lean in a way that he'd never thought possible with cords of dense, iron-like muscle pushing out against his ever-shrinking skin.
By the end of the day, he could hardly lift his arms from swinging the hefty weight of the pick for several hours without rest. Tired, sore, and slowly dying of both thirst and hunger, he dared not stop working until told to do so.
“Back to the cells,” called the raspy, inhuman voice at last.
Garen immediately dropped his pick, letting it slip from his raw, calloused hands to clang on the hard, stone ground. Bending to retrieve his glowstone sent a wave of pain lancing through his back and legs, but he forced himself to bear it. Glowstone in hand, he stood up and fell in with the other slaves as they shuffled back up the tunnel toward the cells.
On the way into the cell, all of the slaves were herded into a line by the demon that constantly stood guard at the doorway. One by one, they filtered through the doorway and were forced to return the glowstones to a bucket. Stumbling blind, they continued on into the utter darkness of the cell beyond. Though no one could see, they had all learned the routine that was repeated day after day. All of the slaves knew that a large iron trough stood in the center of the room filled with their lone, daily meal. Like obedient cattle, they all moved toward it, driven by thirst and hunger.
Garen forced his way between two of the other slaves and felt for the edge of the trough in the darkness. They were never given bowls or utensils of any kind and were forced to eat like animals with their bare hands and faces. It didn't matter though already most of the slaves were digging into the pot with dirt-caked hands; the sloshing sounds of their feeding echoing throughout the dark cell.
Garen cupped his hands and quickly dunked them into the cold, grainy sludge. He ate the same way the other slaves did: as if they were all dying and may never get another meal. Like ravenous beasts, they devoured the sludge. The demons only allowed them to eat once per day, so they gorged themselves as much as possible knowing it would be a full day before they got another chance to eat.
The food was awful, but it was the only thing that kept any of them alive so they feasted as if it were a king's banquet. The sludge tasted vaguely of beef, but Garen knew there was no meat to be found within. Demons don't share meat.
Whatever this stuff is made from is apparently nutritious; no one should be able to survive for months on nothing but cold sludge.
After he finished eating he walked over to the corner to relieve himself. All the slaves used the same corner for that purpose: there was no use for modesty in such a place. The smell was nearly unbearable, but as he moved toward the corner, Garen counted himself lucky. He was one of the few slaves in the cell to have a tattered pair of sandals, so he didn't have to worry about what was squishing beneath his feet.
He finished quickly and moved away from the foul smelling corner. Feeling his way forward in the inky darkness with his feet, he found a spot on the floor between two other slaves and lay down. Drenched in sweat, wracked with pain, and covered in as much sludge as made it into his belly, he let his thoughts drift to places that he was certain broke the rules.
There has got to be a way out of here. There is something I'm not seeing is all. I will not die in this place or get eaten by any of these ugly creatures; I just have to find some way to slip away.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind he frowned. He thought of the slaves that had tried to fight their way out using picks and glowstones.
That didn't do any of the others any good. I'd rather be eaten than go through what they did.
There was no way to know what fate had befallen the would-be escapees, but their screams had continued for nearly a week before they finally fell silent. Garen shivered in dread at just the memory of those screams. Filled with dark thoughts and clinging to a desperate hope, Garen felt the lure of sleep and allowed it to pull him under.
Days passed much the same way for nearly a week. Garen was finding it increasingly harder to keep track of the passage of days. His hope of escaping was slowly chipping away each day like a shore being mercilessly eroded by endless, lapping waves. The days of perpetual terror and misery were beginning to blur. At least they were until the day of the tremor.
Garen and the slaves from his cell had only just begun work for the day when the ground beneath them began to vibrate. The rock walls around them seemed to quiver and dust loosed itself from the ceiling in plumes. He could tell that it was not an earthquake; it was not quite powerful enough. It instead had the vague rumbling quality of a distant explosion or more likely a cave-in.
Judging from the amount of shaking and the sheer length of time that the tremor lasted an entire tunnel must have collapsed.
Once the vibration ceased, and it was clear that the tremor had passed, work returned to normal. A few hours later, when the tremor had been all but forgotten, a small group of new slaves appeared. They were dirty and ragged, covered head to toe in black dust. Garen knew at once that he had been right; one of the tunnels must have collapsed and these were the surviving slaves. They numbered only four.
They probably had as many as we have. Only four survived?
Garen glanced around quickly and guessed that there were as many as 20 slaves in the group from his cell. Despite all he had seen in the past months, he could not help but feel sorry for the lost slaves buried forever in the cold darkness of the collapsed tunnel.
As the new slaves grabbed picks and began digging with the others, one slave in particular caught his attention. She was a strikingly beautiful woman of perhaps 25 years that was completely out of place in the dark, cruel nightmare of their prison. Even covered in dirt and dust and shrouded in rags, her beauty was apparent. Garen couldn't help but feel angry at the demons for resigning such radiance to the grim reality of their prison.
As he worked, Garen kept glancing over at her and he noticed a few things about her that seemed strange. She stood apart from the other slaves, even the ones she had arrived with, as
if wanting to be left alone. Also, the manner in which she worked was odd. Even though she stayed busy, it was obvious that she was hardly putting forth any effort. She worked as if she were simply passing the time, not like someone who was pushing themselves to the breaking point for fear of death.
The woman also didn't carry herself in the defeated, hunched-back, and drooping-shoulder manner of the rest of the slaves. Even Garen couldn't maintain the calm, collected presence that she did. She stood with her back arrow-straight and possessed an innate grace that Garen had never witnessed. With her long, ebony hair flowing behind her and her head held high, she was the perfect vision of beauty.
Garen was still sneaking peeks at her when she abruptly stopped working altogether and set her pick down. Alarm rang through him. He risked a quick look into the darkness of the tunnel behind him but saw nothing.
No! She's going to get herself eaten.
When he turned his head back to her he found her sitting on a rock with her face turned toward the darkness of the tunnel as if in silent defiance. Garen nearly stopped working, himself, as he struggled to understand her suicidal act of rebellion. He quickly glanced at the darkness again.
I can't believe she sat down. Why does she seem so eager to throw her life away? Breaking so many rules is bound to get her killed.
Minutes slowly dragged by without incident. Though Garen kept working, it was only a token, half-hearted effort. He couldn't keep himself from glancing back at the seated beauty. After what seemed to him like an hour but had likely only been a few minutes, the woman stood up and brushed herself off. Bending down, she casually retrieved her pick from the ground and returned to her own half-hearted efforts. Relief washed over Garen, but it was quickly followed by a feeling of cold dread.
What if they're just biding their time; waiting to do something truly sinister to her? What if they do to her what they did to the ones that tried to escape?
Thoughts of her beautiful face twisted in pain nearly made him sick. He could scarcely stand the thought of hearing her screaming voice crying out from the shadows for days. His mind racing with worries, the remainder of the day seemed to last forever.
“Back to the cells!” called the demon's harsh shout at last.
Garen practically threw his pick down and quickly grabbed his glowstone, ignoring the agonizing pain that riddled his body. His nerves were shot from constant fear and worry chasing each other through his head. He doubted that he would have felt as worn out had she just been eaten right away like anyone else, though he was grateful that she hadn't been. He honestly wasn't sure why he felt so strongly about her; they had never even met.
Sure she's beautiful- He caught a glimpse of her up ahead and particularly noted the seductive swing of her hips. Alright, painfully gorgeous, but still I know nothing about her... except that she apparently doesn't care about her own life. An odd thought suddenly popped into his head that he hadn't considered earlier.
Maybe she doesn't fear the demons. Immediately he denied the thought. Even if she for some unknown reason doesn't understand her situation, she should still fear the demons.
Though he'd never truly laid eyes on a demon before he was captured, they had plagued him all throughout his life. As a boy of 12, he'd watched, scared and helpless, as his younger brother was dragged away by one of the half-glimpsed horrors. He had been born and lived his entire life in the village of Seteal which rested just above the bridge leading to The Nightlands. Explorers, hunters, and lightwielders alike all told stories of the sinister demonic hordes that prowled just on the other side of the bridge though only the lightwielders dared to venture there. Demons were known for both their cruel barbarism and their craving of human flesh.
It seemed odd, given what little Garen knew of demons, that they would have the presence of mind to use humans as slaves. He would've expected them all to have been eaten already, but whatever they had been digging for was precious enough for the demons to show restraint.
Perhaps there's something else controlling the demons, like a more powerful demon, and given what I've seen already, that's a truly terrifying thought.
As they reached the cell, he saw that she never stopped to put her glowstone in the bucket like all of the other slaves. The demon was obviously not pleased and started to emit a deep, throaty growl, but when she turned and glared at it the demon fell silent. For a split-second, Garen saw her eyes and nearly gasped. They were bright, iridescent, and blue. Her eyes had seemed to possess an inner glow for that one moment, and it sent a chill down Garen's spine.
Who or what is she?
When his turn came, he quickly placed his glowstone into the bucket and hurried into the cell not wanting to be the one that the demon lashed out at in anger. Instead of the usual darkness of the cell, he saw the beautiful woman standing near the wall at the back of the room. She was illuminated by the glowstone in her left hand while she glanced around for a place to sit. Even though he was curious about her, hunger proved to be stronger than curiosity and he joined the other slaves around the large trough of the usual, barely-edible sludge.
He finished his meal, quickly relieved himself in the rancid-smelling corner, and made his way toward the now-seated woman. Soft, white light spilled from the stone in her hand and partially illuminated the dingy room. Never before had he glimpsed the interior of the cell nor had he really wanted to, but with the light from the woman's glowstone it was much easier to pick his way between the other weary slaves. Despite the fact that she was providing a source of light for all to see by, the other slaves gave her as wide a berth as they could manage in the cramped cell. They all shrank away from her as if afraid she would lash out at them suddenly. As far as Garen could tell the woman had done nothing to elicit such fear.
At only a few steps from the woman, Garen slowed. The woman had turned her gaze directly on him, likely curious about why he was approaching her. Garen stopped just in front of her and returned her gaze.
Why am I approaching her? I don't even know a single thing about her.
He could feel the eyes of all of the slaves upon him and he became slightly uneasy. Their combined unspoken fear suddenly made him nervous.
Do they know something I don't? Is she dangerous?
While his mind was bouncing back and forth between curiosity and concern, his body seemed to act of its own volition. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself sitting in front of her. He looked up at her face and she caught his eyes with her own.
Beautiful, blue eyes. There was no trace of the iridescent glow that he was sure he had seen before.
What should I say?
The blue eyes bored into him with a subtle intensity that defied reason. He felt as if she was disarming him with her eyes. In spite of the many questions that he'd had on the tip of his tongue earlier, his mind suddenly went blank. As he struggled to come up with something to say, he realized that she'd come directly over and sat down upon entering the cell.
She hasn't eaten anything.
“Are you alright?” he asked. “You should get something to eat before it's all gone. The food is terrible, but it will help keep you on your feet.”
She continued to stare at him with those blue eyes. He averted his gaze, unable to lock eyes with her anymore.
I wonder if she can even talk.
None of the slaves that he'd encountered thus far had been either capable of or willing to talk to him. Whether or not that was from fear or being born into slavery and never learning to speak in the first place, Garen couldn't say. All of the slaves kept to themselves, hoping in vain to remain invisible among a faceless crowd. He had hoped the woman would prove different, but that seemed less likely with each moment that passed.
The awkward silence, combined with her unwavering stare, quickly made him uneasy. He couldn't think of what else to say nor was he convinced that she would understand him if he did speak. Unsure of what else to do, he started to rise; content to leave her be.
?
??Wait.”
Garen stopped instantly, frozen in a half crouch. Her voice was smoky and seductive and she spoke with an accent that he couldn't place. Never had he thought that hearing the voice of another person would have such a profound effect on him. With but a single word, she rekindled the hope he had desperately been clinging to. He slowly sat down and found himself locking eyes with her once more.
“You can speak?” Garen asked in surprise.
“I was about to ask the same of you,” she replied in her uniquely accented voice. “The spoken word is not something that the demons permit their slaves to learn here in the Nightlands. They believe that humans are much easier to control if they don't possess the ability to communicate.”
“But I'm not from the Nightlands. I was born and raised in The World of Light in the village of Seteal. My father gave me the name Garen.”
“So you were captured and brought here, Garen of Seteal?”
“Yes,” he said as his excitement began to die away. “What about you? I get the feeling that you're not from The World of Light. You speak perfectly, but I've never encountered anyone with an accent like yours.”
“You're correct; I'm not from The World of Light. I was born here in The Nightlands. As for speaking... my father taught me.” she said in a tone of voice full of half-concealed sadness.
It's obvious that something happened with her father, but I doubt that she'll talk about it to a stranger.
“Do you have a name? I'm not actually sure how things work here in The Nightlands, but I imagine you're still given a name.”
“My name is,” she paused for a moment as if in thought, “Cassandra.”
“Why do you disobey the demons? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Those things aren't true demons; they're demidemons. They are the most numerous creatures here in The Nightlands, but they're far beneath real demons.”
“That doesn't seem to matter much to us humans. Those demidemons are stronger than any man I've ever known and they kill as mercilessly as any demon.”
“For your sake, I hope you never discover how wrong you are,” she said cryptically. “As to why I choose to disobey them, it's simple: those demi demand too much, and I disagree with their methods.”
Cassandra spoke with such confidence that Garen could scarcely believe it. Never had he encountered another person, slave or otherwise, that was even remotely like her.
“Are you serious? With an attitude like that I'm surprised you haven't been maimed, eaten, or worse.”
“I assure you,” she said with a sly smile, “many have tried and yet here I sit, but that is not important.”
Garen stared at her dumbfounded. He found himself unable to come up with a response to her claim.
Many have tried? Many demidemons? How is this woman still alive?
“I want to ask you something,” she mused and looked at him with a fierce intensity. “How long have you been here, Garen of Seteal?”
“I'm not sure. I think it's been about six months or so, but it's impossible to know for sure.”
Cassandra smiled at him again. He found her smile both enchanting and beguiling, as if it concealed some great secret.
“In all of that time did you ever learn or even think about what it is that the demi are making us dig for?”
“No,” Garen answered without hesitation. “I've just been trying to survive. Most of the other slaves aren't so lucky. They're taken for one reason or another; dragged off into the shadows without mercy.”
“Would you like me to tell you the reason?” she asked with the corner of her mouth still quirked up in amusement. “Would you like to know why you have been suffering for the past six months in this place?”
Garen slowly nodded, wondering how she came to possess such knowledge. She smiled briefly, and then became utterly serious.