The voice didn’t answer for a moment. “I will accept your designation of those who live here as ‘demons.’ The term has been used before.”
“Is there another name?”
“There are many other names. You may give them another if you wish.”
“No.” Evil grew as it got more names. Warren remembered that from the books his mother had read. “You said this was a place of the Dark Wills.”
“Yes.”
“What is a Dark Will?”
“A ranking within the demon hierarchy. A demon warrior must kill billions to achieve this designation.”
“Is Merihim a Dark Will?”
“Not yet. But he aspires to be.”
“Will getting the Hammer of Balekor help Merihim achieve that designation?”
“Yes.”
Then I’m going to be helping him, Warren realized.
“You will be helping him,” the voice said. “You should rejoice.”
“Why?”
“Because Merihim might choose to be generous.”
“And if he chooses not to be generous?”
“Then he will destroy you.”
Nausea twisted through Warren’s stomach, but he managed to keep control of himself. He didn’t know what would happen if he got sick inside the tower.
“What does the hammer do?” he whispered.
“It controls the darkness,” the voice replied. “It casts withering black fire, controls the elements, and opens gateways in Shadow.”
“Shadow?”
“The places that lie between the worlds. The possessor of the Hammer of Balekor can draw up the dead to fight at his side.”
The announcement, delivered so matter-of-factly, left Warren chilled. He was being asked to be part of that? Not being asked, he reminded himself. Being commanded. That’s different. And if you don’t do it, Merihim will kill you and find someone else to do his dirty work.
Fleetingly, he wondered if Tulane and the Cabalists could save him from the demon if it came down to it. Once the question was posed, though, he immediately doubted it.
“Your time here grows short,” the voice said. “Even with the way made open to you by Merihim, even he can’t keep the way open for long. You must finish your task.”
“How?”
“Come.” One of the room’s sides suddenly glowed brighter than the rest.
Feeling hypnotized, Warren crossed the room and stood in front of the wall.
An image took shape in the air before him, like a tri-dee coming to life. He recognized the war hammer from books he’d read while growing up. It looked like a Norse weapon, but the head was massive—over two feet in length and a foot wide and thick. It had to weigh a couple of hundred pounds. The black metal had crimson threads that ran through it. Most Viking hammers were four or five feet in length, but the handle on Balekor’s weapon was at least eight. It might be unwieldy even for Merihim.
Before he knew what he was doing, Warren reached for the hammer. A green electrical shock leaped from the haft just before he touched it. Reeling, his hand spasmed and closed around the haft, passing through it without touching anything substantial.
“You’re linked with the hammer, Devourer,” the voice boomed. “Now find it for your master.”
The blackness returned and pulled Warren down into it. He fought against it, trying to stave it off. The effort was pure reflex, though, because as he thought about it, he didn’t want to stay in the tower, either. He just wanted some kind of control over his life. But he wasn’t strong enough to stop the blackness from washing over him.
When Warren woke, he was freezing. He pulled weakly at the covers that lay across him and tried desperately to find more warmth. His thoughts spun dizzyingly, shattering against each other.
“Get me another blanket,” a woman’s voice said. “He’s burning up with fever.”
The rustling noises reached Warren, but he couldn’t open his eyes even though he tried his hardest. He felt increased pressure over his body as another blanket was added. He clung to it gratefully.
“Were you able to stay with him?” a man’s voice asked.
With the echoing in the room, or in his hearing, Warren barely recognized the voice as Tulane’s.
“No.” That was Naomi. “There was a barrier. I couldn’t get around it.”
“Do you think he managed to get there?”
“I don’t know.”
Warren’s teeth chattered. His back and legs ached from shaking.
“His fever’s nearly reached a hundred and five,” another male voice said. Warren thought that one belonged to the doctor he’d met earlier. “We’ve got to get him into an alcohol bath before we lose him.”
“He’s going to be all right,” Tulane said.
“You don’t know that,” the doctor argued.
“Merihim didn’t contact him just to kill him.”
“The demons have killed countless numbers of people. One more isn’t going to make a difference.”
“He’s going to be all right.”
Something touched Warren’s head. It felt ice-cold.
“He’s at a hundred and six,” the doctor said. “If you don’t let me treat him, he’s going to die within minutes. He may be brain-damaged already.”
Warren didn’t know what would happen if his brain overheated. He’d heard about the danger of high fevers, but he didn’t know what they actually did to the brain. Did it cook like an egg? Or did it melt like candle wax? He wasn’t sure.
Tulane answered reluctantly. “All right. Treat the fever.”
Immediately, several pairs of hands grabbed Warren and yanked him from the bed. He tried to fight against them, but he was too weak. They stripped his clothes from him, carried him across the brightly lit room, and lowered him into a waiting bath of freezing liquid. A fresh wave of nausea swirled through him.
“We shouldn’t have let him go to the demon world,” Naomi said.
“He didn’t go,” Tulane argued. “He remained here.”
“His body didn’t leave, but I felt his mind go. I couldn’t keep up. Getting glimpses of the demon world is dangerous enough. Everyone who’s ever been there has always come back insane or mentally damaged. We shouldn’t have let him go.”
“Naomi,” Tulane said in a softer voice, “he’s compelled by the demons. He’s in thrall to Merihim. I don’t think you could have stopped Warren from going even if you’d tried.”
“I should have tried. What’s happened to him…it’s more than
