Master of Fiends

by Douglas Hill

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

In a barbaric, demon-infested world, no one stands against the all-powerful magic of the Unnamed Enemy, who is called Master of Fiends. No on except young Jarrel and his three friends - Scythe, Archer and Mandra - each with their own special powers. And they have taken on the impossible task of rescuing their friend, the wizard Cryl, who is held captive beyond the Barrier Peaks. Trying to pass beneath the Peaks, they must battle the weird beings of that underworld and their monstrous ruler, the Keeper of the Chasms. And beyond those terrors lies something even worse - the ghastly realm of the Enemy, and his demon horde from the Farther Darkness...

Release date: September 30, 2014

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 176

Sample

The landscape of the foothills seemed to have produced its own weather, as unrelenting as the rock that armoured the hillsides. Far to the east the land basked in late summer, a time of blue skies and warm sun. But in the stony foothills, the sky wore an endless grey overcast and an upland wind swept all warmth from the air.

And throughout that landscape, on one particular morning, no sound arose except when the wind ruffled dry twigs. No birds or insects flew in the chilly air, no small animals scuttled through the brush. If any wildlife existed on those uplands, it was staying eerily silent, as if holding its breath in fright.

But all at once the silence was broken—by the scrape of claws on stone, the padding of leathery paws. Two creatures loped into view, bounding up to the crest of a ridge. If glimpsed from a distance, they might have been taken for unusual stoats or weasels, with their narrow heads and elongated bodies. But they were each larger than the largest dog—and they were not any kind of animal ever known in that world.

Their sinuous bodies were muscular, with short powerful legs and broad paws armed with talons. The ears were huge and pointed, the eyes were slanted and red-rimmed. The skin was scaly, with long sparse hair, smeared with filth and foulness that gave off a poisonous stink. And the half-open mouths revealed saw-like teeth and black, dangling tongues that were divided into many wriggling filaments.

For a moment both creatures sat up on their haunches to stare across the land towards the south-west. Their weird tongues flickered out, almost as if they were licking the air. Then one of them growled, a sound like iron scraping on stone, and spoke.

“Flesh-taste in the air heavier, sister,” it said. “Grow we closer still.”

The other creature echoed the ugly growl. “Time draws near, brother. Feasting soon.”

The eyes of the male glittered, as a line of slaver seeped from its mouth. “Not feasting, when can kill only small male human. Should take small female, too, so flesh enough for us both.”

The female’s snarl deepened. “Orders are clear. Kill small male, feed if we wish. The horde to come for other three humans, take to Kingdom. Orders. Will brother disobey, face wrath of Annihilannic and our Master?”

The male cringed. “Will not.”

“No.” The female nodded once. “Feast we will have, even so. Horses they ride not wanted by Master. Flesh, blood, to gorge on.”

“Horse flesh sweet,” the male growled, drooling. “Human sweeter.”

“Is so,” the female said. The divided tongue flickered again. “These very sweet. Did you taste? Fear in their blood, in flesh. Know now. Know they are pursued.”

The male’s teeth gleamed wetly. “What fear-taste would fill their blood, did they know pursuers are most skilled hunters in Farther Darkness?”

“Soon they will know,” the female said with an answering grin. “On night of killing.”

Laughing, a sound like a choking cough, they bounded away down the slope, leaving their stench hanging in the air behind them.

Some distance to the south-west of that slope, an unusual woman stood on another rocky hilltop, staring eastwards. She was half again as tall as a tall man, with a powerful body clad in a simple jerkin, breeches and low boots. Over one shoulder she carried an enormous bow and a quiver of long arrows, from which she took her name—Archer.

Nearby stood a dark-haired man, slightly less than average height, lean and muscular, wearing dark clothing and boots. He was known as Scythe, partly because of the curved sword sheathed within the equally curved staff on which he was leaning. His face was pale and strong-boned, with startling eyes that were merely empty surfaces of shiny black.

Two others stood beside Scythe, both much younger. One was a pretty blonde girl of about fourteen named Mandra—properly Lady Mandragorina, daughter of a nobleman. Her dusky red tunic and leggings were travel-worn, like the clothing of the others, but obviously costly, as was the ivory-hilted dagger at her belt.

The fourth person was a boy named Jarral, a plain-featured twelve-year-old wearing a shirt, breeches and sturdy shoes. At the beginning of the summer he had been living an ordinary life in a peaceful, isolated village. But he had been plucked from that peace to face, with his three companions, the most mind-shrinking terrors and dangers. Even so, they had survived—mainly because all four of them had special, extraordinary powers.

Archer, for instance, was able to move objects with her mind. So she never missed a shot with her bow, since her power could guide an arrow to hit any target that she could see. And she could see over an astonishing distance, for her eyes were as keen as those of a bird of prey.

Scythe was an immensely skilled warrior, with his curved sword, even though his cold black eyes were sightless. He had an inner mental vision that could ‘see’ better than eyes—because it took in everything around him, on all sides.

As for the young ones, Mandra had the power to affect the minds of others, to alter what they perceived. And Jarral, during his travels with the others, had discovered within himself a power that made him possibly the most extraordinary of them all.

But at that moment he was not feeling extraordinary. He was simply feeling tense and frightened—because they had paused on that hilltop so that Archer, with her incredible eyesight, could study the two weasel-monsters on the faraway ridge.

Finally Archer turned away, her tanned face sombre. “They are down in a gully now, out of sight,” she said. “But there is no doubt. They are trailing us.”

“Are you sure they’re … demons?” Jarral asked.

Mandra gave him a pained look. “No, they’re just oversized ground-squirrels,” she said sarcastically.

“I was sure even when I glimpsed them, yesterday,” Archer replied. “Now I have seen them clearly. They are minor demons, from the lower levels of the Farther Darkness.”

“They seem to be keeping their distance,” Mandra said. “They must know what Jarral can do to them.”

“While he’s awake and in one piece,” Scythe said, dropping a sinewy hand on Jarral’s shoulder. “They’ll probably try to frighten us and wear us down, and attack if they have a chance. They’ll also know we can’t really hurt them.”

“So we must be on guard every moment, day and night,” Archer said firmly. “Especially Mandra.”

Mandra grimaced. “I hate to touch a demon’s mind. It’s like falling into a sewer.”

“It’s necessary,” Scythe said shortly. “We knew when we started that demons would be sent against us.” He smiled a thin smile. “And these are just a pair of low-levels. We’ll face far worse if we get across the Barrier Peaks.”

For the next few hours the four rode steadily and silently towards the south-west. Archer and Jarral were on two unremarkable horses that had been acquired during some earlier adventures. Mandra rode her own Pearl, a pretty mare of purest white. And Scythe rode a horse named Hob that looked gangly and awkward but was intelligent, swift and sure-footed.

Sure-footedness was necessary in that terrain. For several days the riders had been moving higher through the foothills that led up into the great range known as the Barrier Peaks. Still a long way away, the mountains seemed to rise up ahead of them like a blue-grey wall, their summits invisible within the low-hanging clouds.

But Jarral was not paying much attention to the Peaks, that day. Mindful of the frightening creatures that were trailing them, he was constantly looking around, as were the others. Archer rode half-turned in her saddle, scanning the distant landscape behind them with her eagle eyes. Scythe’s strange vision could not reach so far, but he was tirelessly watching the terrain nearby on every side, which he could do without turning his head. And Mandra was using her mental power to search for any hint of approaching demon-minds.

So they were all wearily grateful for the end of that day’s riding, when the shadows among the foothills deepened towards nightfall. At the same time, the shadows increased Jarral’s anxiety. His imagination filled the darkness with fangs and claws and devil-eyes. He knew very well that Scythe did not need light to see, and that Mandra’s mind could reach out just as well in darkness. But he also knew that out in the wilds were two demons, evil supernatural beings. And night was the time for demons.

But a friendly campfire, driving back the dark, helped a little. So did the fact that no danger had appeared by the time they had eaten. And by then Jarral’s fears were being overshadowed by his concern for Mandra, who was growing deeply fatigued. Archer and Scythe rarely seemed tired by the use of their mental powers, but they were adults with amazing strength and stamina. Mandra was simply too young to use her power—her Talent—non-stop for a long time. It tired her out, as if the Talent was draining her very life-force.

But as soon as their frugal meal had ended, Archer announced that she and Scythe would keep watch through the night, so that the two young ones could rest. Gratefully Mandra rolled herself in her blankets and fell at once into an exhausted sleep. Scythe then drifted away to prowl through the darkness, while Archer unslung her great bow to stand guard over the camp. But Jarral hesitated knowing that, despite the skills and Talents of the two warriors, he was the only one who could hope to oppose the weasel-demons.

“I should stay awake too,” he said uneasily to Archer.

The bow-woman shook her head. “You need to sleep,” she said. “If they attack, Scythe and I will be able to hold them off long enough to awaken you.”

Reluctantly, Jarral gathered his blankets and lay down by the fire, silently vowing that he would not close his eyes that night. He was still affirming that vow as he slid inescapably down into sleep.

It seemed only moments later that he came half-awake, some ugly dream-image dissolving in his mind. The fire had burned down, but in the glow of the embers he could see Archer standing tensely nearby, peering into the night. There was no sign of Scythe, and for an alarmed moment Jarral wondered if something had happened to the swordsman. But then he realized what had alerted Archer.

The wind was gusting from the direction in which Archer was looking. And those gusts were bearing, towards the camp, the most stomach-heaving stink that Jarral had ever experienced.

He knew without being told that the stink was not from any natural cause. It contained a timeless depth of evil pollution and decay. It had to be the foul reek of the hunter-demons, somewhere near the camp.

Fear rippled through Jarral’s nerve-endings, jolting him fully awake. For an instant it struck him as peculiar that the demons should carelessly approach the camp upwind. Perhaps, he thought, they are so confident …

Then, in a burst of terror, he realized the truth. Only one of the creatures had approached upwind—as a distraction.

From the opposite direction the second demon sprang into the firelight, charging at Jarral with red eyes flaring and fanged jaws gaping wide.

Jarral lay paralysed with fear, hardly aware of Archer whirling, great muscles tensed. Behind her Scythe appeared out of the darkness like a ghost, his hand flashing up to the back of his collar where a throwing knife was sheathed. As the demon began its final leap, Scythe’s knife buried itself in its scaly throat. And Archer’s mental power lifted the coals of the fire and flung them into the creature’s face.

The two-fold attack threw the demon off balance. Its leap fell short of Jarral, just as the panicking boy found the strength to scramble frantically backwards. His eyes were fixed on the monster, on the mind-numbing sight of Scythe’s knife melting away to nothing, with a faint bubbling hiss as if it had been dipped in acid. Then it was gone, leaving no visible wound on the creature’s throat, as the hot coals had left no mark on its face.

The demon laughed, a sound like strangling, which was echoed from the darkness. Archer whirled again as the second demon appeared, bounding towards the battle. In front of Jarral the first demon growled and crouched, about to spring.

Without a hint of warning the night sky was ripped apart by a skull-rattling blast of thunder, followed by sudden, torrential rain.

It was almost a wall of water,. . .