Dark Fall (3rd Book)

Chapter 8: Beauty in Red and Black

"How many times have we been over this?" He asked, a ridiculously high pitch to his tone as he put his hands to his hips and gestured with his left arm, waving around a camp full of men and women, of all races. A dragon of immense size and deep color stood in front of a crowd of warriors, facing against this one demon.

It seeemed as if they were driven out of their own camp, and they strove to reclaim it, no matter the costs.

"I'm unkillable, and even if you do manage it..." He trailed off and smirked. "Guess who's going to hunt you all down?"

Silence reigned over them for a second as they all wondered a cloaked god of shadows rampaging through the countryside, slaughtering all who even dared to look at him. He felt their own shivers as it were his own, and he sensed the fear, how they looked away, and how some hid behind their mothers, behind their own shields, behind tents, hiding from his gaze.

He loved it.

"And how many times does it have to be said, demon?" Miasmador held a pained expression on his face as he said it, though it was not obvious, for who could distinguish the many emotions passing by a dragon's face?

The dragon leaned his head back and grunted. "You're a pawn, a slave, and a servant, not even worth his time." His teeth shone as they were shown threateningly towards the demonic man, the black abyss. "How could you even bow down to a betrayer? Scum?"

"You forget, lizard," He told the dragon, still very much a jolly demon, but now wearing a faint scowl,"that the one you just bravely slandered is my Lord, and I don't take too kindly to that."

"Why do you try to reason with him?" Nereid inquired, string still pulled and the arrow's tip still pointed to his heart as her head turned to look at the purple giant. "He's a demon, plain and simple, and as such, he deserves death."

"Listen to the elf, dragon, and only then can you see it's futile talking with me." He checked the talons that replaced his nails, admiring the small handiwork. "Sharp and dangerous."

"Friendships matter to me, boy, demon or not," Miasmador told him, and he was just too surprised to act upon that one. Even the dragon was surprised to hear it slipping past his own throat, and then the humans and elves and dwarves themselves looked at the dragon with angry eyes, disappointed ones even.

"What?"

"We've forged a strong bond, you and me, and even if my own instincts go against it, I'm your friend." His voice was resolute, and yet, a soft whimper echoed out his throat.

"Too bad." Althalos shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, watching as the dragon looked shock after his declaration. "Perhaps we can be companions after your death, but until then, you're nothing but an annoyance to me."

"Do you really expect me to just keel over, boy?" His rage was volcanic, when earlier he was lenient, friendly even, looking towards this one demon with anger, when just moments ago it was sadness and regret. "I'm a dragon, you're a tiny demon against me. I can crush you with my claw as easi..."

"Remember who had done your wish, lizard," He warned, glaring at the dragon, the gaiety gone. "I gave it to you, and I can force it back."

"Even then, I'll still crush you, and I will burn you."

"Really?" Althalos asked, then with one hand, filled a man's blood with the force of his own thunder, smiling at them in grim humor as they looked horrified, hearing the man's dying scream and his twitching body, watching him fall to the ground in a heap of burnt skin and ash. "Want to say it again, Miasmador?"

"Where is Fendrel in all of this anyway?" He asked, looking around, forcing the power of electricity back to his arms, where they trickled and troubled, danced and twisted, forever beautiful in a color of light azure.

"It's none of your concern, you sick bastard," The elf hissed, maintaining it at a whisper as she threw away her own bow, readying her short sword. "You twisted madman."

"I think I des..."

"You don't deserve anything, monster," A woman shouted out, shaking her head in swift bursts it looked like she was going to rip it from her neck with just its force. She held a small knife of iron, and her shivers travelled down her arms. "You deserve nothing but death!"

"You say I de..."

"You can never amount to my skill," Fendrel told him in a harsh whisper as he stabbed him on the abdomen, the Dragonblade's magic working absolute wonders on him. "You can't ever do it, foster son."

"Fendrel," He whispered in shock, dropping to his knees as the fires burned into his veins.

He screamed, an unholy terror emanating out his own throat, tearing itself out for the world to see as he looked back to the ground, where drops of black, then red blood dripped down. The tip protruded out, mocking him with its own shine, stained with his essence.

But all he could ever feel was the pain itself.

It was as if Miasmador's blood ran in his veins, and the dragon's fire was simply too much to hold. His sides screamed as he did, and his even his bones felt like a burnt mess as the Dragonblade was pulled out of him.

In a moment of desparation, he awaited his Father's words to come resonating into his mind, berating him and punishing him in ways more gruesome than the most painful torture man has ever tried to concoct.

But none came.

"I may not beat you in skill, Fendrel," Althalos groaned as he stood up, an astonishing act to be seen. "I may not, but at least I have something better."

"Myrkr frylia nre."

"What I lack in skill, Fendrel," Althalos explained as another black aura encased him in a shroud of terrifying evil,"I can make up for in my own magic."

"I'm a demon, Fendrel," Althalos explained to his father. "A scion of darkness, and I can take upon Merec's power whenever I desire to. I am no normal demon too!"

"What are you, then?" Nereid asked him, and a smug grin rolled off his lips.

I believe it's time you know of your form and power, boy. You've uttered the words, and you need only the name.

What is it, Lord Master?

Unspoken words were transferred over the course of mere seconds, and once he focused back to the horde of mortal men and women, he could only smile at them. "Fall before me."

His voice was smooth, smooth as his calmness, and yet hiding that humor, that demented happiness he collected from the screams of dying men gutted like a pig's journey to the spit, and then the sound of broken bones and torn skin.

"I am Nemyctor, my dears!" He told them as his own ebony skin formed colors of the redness of blood and his features sharpened. Fangs elongated and the horns became sharper, as if it can rip the skin apart in just a single nick. A laugh echoed out his lips, filled with maddening sweetness. "Perhaps you've read of me, father?"

"Kill him!"