This is the eighth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The seventh chapter, Skûn's Gambit, can be found here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/diabolical-ascension-vii-sk%C3%BBn-s-gambit
The first chapter, Awakening, can be found here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/diabolical-ascension-i-awakening
Image credits (in order of appearance): Petr Joura
Addaduros was so unrelentingly bright, as bright as Golgotha was dark. Asmodeus hated it. The archdevil stood upon what was colloquially known as the vestibule of Azaba’ar, the floating island city of badlands, stone, and adobe that was the capital of the Fifth Hell. The vestibule itself was a small stretch of desolate red-orange rock, spanning perhaps a hundred feet before yielding to the open sky on one side and a stalwart iron portcullis on the other, the front gate of Azaba’ar that was ensconced within the great labyrinth winding around the city. On either side of the portcullis stood a tower of stone bricks bristling with spikes upon which were mounted pale, writhing, and altogether wretched things, damned souls that had failed in their duties, and within the tops of the towers were burly minotaurs, clad in iron and armed to the teeth.
Asmodeus had not come to Azaba’ar alone, of course. Even though the laws of the Thirteen Hells forbid the archdevils from attacking one another unless formal declarations of war had been made, and Azazel had garnered a reputation for lethargy and hedonism during the recent millennia, Asmodeus was neither naïve nor a fool. At the sides and flanks of the archdevil was an honor guard picked from the Doombringers, his favored legion. Each of the nine diabolical legionnaires was a black-scaled gargoyle with the horns and hooves of a ram, the wings of a dragon, and eyes of fire. They were nearly as tall as their liege and held themselves proudly. Pulsing red runes upon their adamantine armor held both powerful sorceries and the sagas of their valorous deeds; their glaives were of similar make.
“Open this portal,” Asmodeus called, “for I am the Lord of Golgotha, and I demand to speak with Azazel.”
“And what business does the Lord of Golgotha have with the Lord of Addaduros?” one of the minotaurs within the left tower called back.
Asmodeus’s snake tail, Poisonteeth, turned its hypnotic gaze upon the minotaur. “That is between him and I alone,” Asmodeus said, his tone like a door grinding shut.
“I will send a kuryaazos to inform my lord that you are here.”
Asmodeus said nothing back, and he molded his face into a mask of apathy. He had already sent a messenger to inform Azazel of his arrival cycles before. The Lord of the Fifth Hell had not responded, but that was his nature; he was melancholic and self-involved. Asmodeus couldn’t bring himself to feel frustrated about it, either. He was instead disappointed. There had been a time when Azazel had been renowned for his fury, the wrath which was the primary mortal sin of both Addaduros and Golgotha. Asmodeus remembered well the times when he and his fellow archdevil had ridden the Fire-Brides of Pandemonium together, laying waste to the hordes of Ahriman during the formative millennia of the Thirteen Hells. Now, their relationship had disintegrated into this, the Lord of Golgotha having to ascertain whether or not the Lord of Addaduros had committed treachery against him. Asmodeus would have expected such a thing from Lilith, who ruled the Ninth Hell of Judecca, and especially Mephistopheles, who ruled the frigid wastes of Cocytus, the Eighth Hell, and had been Asmodeus’s rival since before the Fall.
But Azazel…
The grinding of the portcullis cut off Asmodeus’s next bout of ruminations. “Lord Azazel will see you,” called one of the minotaurs above.
Asmodeus and his Doombringers marched through the front gate. Beyond lay the looming metropolis that was Azaba’ar. All manner of devils moved through the streets on all manners of business, and gangs of damned souls bound by thick, dolorously clanking chains performed menial labor, goaded by unrelenting overseers. The Lord of Golgotha and his honor guard turned many heads as they passed by, though none dared to bar their path. They proceeded straight toward the goat-headed fortress of Azazos; the front gate of the surrounding wall was already open. Asmodeus and his Doombringers were soon standing directly in front of the monolithic mesa. There was no gate into the fortress that could be seen, but a section of stone in front of the new arrivals began to shimmer and shift, soon contorting into a cave. From it emerged a naked she-devil with manacles upon her wrists.
“Lord Azazel bids you welcome, Lord Asmodeus,” the slave said, “If it pleases you, follow me, and I will escort you and your honor guard to my lord’s throne room.”
Asmodeus gestured affirmatively but said nothing; he would not waste breath on one of Azazel’s whores.
The she-devil turned around and entered the cave, followed by Asmodeus and his Doombringers. The eleven devils passed through a morass of tunnels before finally arriving at a lustrous adamantine portcullis. Immediately, it began to grind open. Beyond lay an immense cavern with walls adorned by chains, spikes, and other torturous instruments bearing the corpses of Azazel’s foes. The goat-headed archdevil sat languidly upon his dragon-bone throne, surrounded by nine she-devil slaves chained to the base. In his left hand, he held a goblet of wine.
“Asmodeus,” Azazel said around a sip from his goblet, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Asmodeus smiled cordially. “I sent the four hundred and twenty-eighth incarnation of Zeraga Baal’khal to seek Hellscythe here many cycles ago, and he still has not returned. I was hoping that you would be able to help me.”
“As a matter of fact, I can.” Azazel laughed mirthlessly. “Your Doomfire has slain legionnaires from among my Fangs, and so I have sent forth a host to make him pay for his crimes. They hunt him even now.”
“Why did you not inform me of such a happening?” Asmodeus kept his eyes from narrowing into a glare. “I would have been able to provide aid.”
Unless it was the Fangs of Azazel who were the first to attack. Poisonteeth suggested, speaking only to Asmodeus.
Though the archdevil agreed, he did not respond.
“There is no need for such a thing.” Azazel gestured dismissively. “I can govern my own domain, and I assure you that Zeraga Baal’khal will be returned to your domain as soon as he is found. Still, I appreciate your visit. It has been too long since I have had the company of another archdevil.” The Lord of Addaduros drank from his goblet, his four eyes remaining fixed on Asmodeus.
“Then perhaps I should visit more often,” Asmodeus replied, “I will wait for ninety more cycles. If Zeraga has not returned to Golgotha by then, I shall return.”
“It shall be as you say, Asmodeus. Know that I am doing all I can; I know well how important the Doomfire is to the Thirteen Hells.”
Asmodeus did not dignify saccharine words with a response as he turned around and left the throne room, his Doombringers behind him. The Lord of Golgotha already knew all too well what was transpiring: Azazel was trying to take Zeraga for himself, treachery in its most unfettered form.
And Asmodeus would not stand for it.
* * *
Maraduamnaa shrieked with pleasure, her voice filling the whole of the ice hut she had created earlier that night. The glayruk was mounted upon the albino leopard; her hands were on the two-legged beast’s shoulders while his foreclaws held tightly on to her hips. Their intertwined naked bodies euphorically swayed to and fro while Baal-Kephor and the other nine two-legged beasts looked on, all ten of them lusting after the glayruk. Around Maraduamnaa and her lover had been carved a circle of runes, carved, angular, and every form in between. They throbbed with eerie red light that turned the inside of the hut sanguine.
The albino leopard thrust deeper into Maraduamnaa, and she became wetter as she shuddered and threw out her spider legs from the ecstasy of another orgasm. The circle of runes glowed brighter. “Oh yes…” the glayruk moaned, raising her arms as her lover planted his clawed hands on her breasts, his fingers pressing on her engorged nipples. She came again; the runes pulsed faster.
An electric sensation, that of gathering sorcery, manifested in Maraduamnaa’s fingertips and coursed down her arms. She panted with pleasure and anticipation. “More, more!”
The albino leopard growled as he obliged, the rhythm of his thrusting growing faster and harsher. Maraduamnaa threw her up head and began to cry out an incantation. Sorcery flowed through her as she chanted; a shimmering kaleidoscopic orb about the size of her head appeared between her hands. Upon the orb was a panoply of shifting, demoniac faces, the denizens of Ag’graaza. It grew larger and larger as the ritual continued until it was half the size of Maraduamnaa and had drifted so that it was in front of her and her lover but still within the circle of runes.
Maraduamnaa grinned. Everything was going according to plan. The albino leopard roared as he came, and Maraduamnaa squealed, shuddered, and writhed, nearly collapsing onto the two-legged beast beneath her as she cried out the last words of her spell. The albino leopard was no Baal-Kephor, but oh, he certainly was pleasurable.
The kaleidoscopic orb of prismatic faces widened into a portal as the glow of the rune circle dulled. From it stepped a tall, lithe, debonair man with a handsome face and burning red eyes. His ears and lips were bedecked with piercings, and he wore only a loose-fitting white robe.
“That was quite the performance,” the demon said by way of greeting, a rakish smile on his face. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Maraduamnaa rose to her full height, holding back a moan and a shudder as the albino leopard slid out of her, and she gave an inviting smile made all the more alluring by her mussed hair, glistening skin, and still heaving breasts. “You are one who comes from Qeyy’phon Nyxaria, the Cat-Queen of Darkness, Lust, and All Things Secret. I am humbled that she has seen fit to answer my summons by sending you. It is a boon of knowledge that I ask.”
“Very well then.” The demon nodded and gestured toward Maraduamnaa, his red eyes ever upon her. “What knowledge do you seek?”
“There is a mountain toward which my companions and I are traveling, and within it is a magical simulacrum of Zeraga Baal’khal. What can you tell me about it?”
The demon gave a hollow laugh. “You are best off abandoning any notions of finding the silver simulacrum. The insanity about the mountain will ravage the minds of everyone here save for he who is my mortal foe.”
At that, Baal-Kephor’s hand darted to the hilt of his adamantine war-blade.
“What is causing the insanity?” Maraduamnaa said, “Surely, there must be a way around it.”
“That which causes the insanity is the very thing that enabled your ritual to work. The veil between this world and Ag’graaza is thin, very thin, but there might be a way to preserve your mind… Oh yes, there might be a way…” The demon’s voice trailed off pensively, almost seductively.
Maraduamnaa lurched forward. “What is it? I must know.”
“There is a boon that my queen could give you. Yes, there is a boon, but only if you are willing to pay the price.”
“What is the boon? What is the price?” Maraduamnaa’s heart was racing almost as fast as it had during the throes of the ritual. Thirty cycles had passed since she and her warband had left Ancra-Vo-Yek, marching through treacherous mountain trails and passes ravaged by unrelenting storms of ice, sleet, snow, and wind as they came ever closer to their goal. Nearly every night, Maraduamnaa had performed a lust ritual; this was the first one to have succeeded.
“This.” The demon held out his left hand. A chalice manifested in his grasp. It was of a rich, purple metal, brighter and more vibrant than Maraduamnaa’s sword, and it was stylized with austere feline heads that had onyx eyes. Within the chalice swirled a dark red liquid with black strands running through it. “It is a potion devised by alchemists who served under a now-dead demon lord in a part of Ag’graaza that does not exist but may yet exist again. To drink of it is to join with the Primordial Chaos-Void as my kin and I are joined with it. But, for me to provide a secret, you must provide one in return.”
Maraduamnaa did know a secret, something no one else in the multiverse knew. She was pregnant with Baal-Kephor’s child. But, she knew also that that would not satisfy the demon. Half-fiends were a common enough occurrence; what was one more? “Surely, there must be something in the mountain that is of interest to Queen Qeyy’phon Nyxaria; my servants and I could retrieve it and summon you when we have done so.”
“An interesting proposition.” The demon stroked his chin. “As a matter of fact, there is something within the mountain that is of interest to my queen.”
“Name it, and it shall be hers.”
The demon of the Cat-Queen laughed sibilantly. “Within the mountain’s depths, where no one, neither mortal nor immortal, has ventured for many millennia, there lies one of the last eggs from the dragons of Kazanor before they became the Fire-Brides of Pandemonium. It is this egg that would please my queen.”
You cannot agree to such a thing. Baal-Kephor interjected, his words heard only by Maraduamnaa. We should find the egg, and I will take it to Satan; he will surely lend his aid to our cause then.
You already know my history with his vizier Arioch, Maraduamnaa replied, and another Fire-Bride could be turned against us all too easily. Aloud, the glayruk said, “Very well. The egg shall be yours.”
The demon smiled, his eyes glowing brighter. “Good. By the potion in this chalice shall our pact be sealed. You and your beasts may come forward and drink.”
Maraduamnaa walked to the demon and cupped the chalice in her hands while he still gripped the stem. Lifting the chalice to her lips, Maraduamnaa drank. The liquid was warm, electric, and more viscous than she had expected, like sludge sliding down her throat, and a prismatic mirage of non-forms, the eddies and currents of Ag’graaza, manifested before her mind’s eye. The sorcerous power within the glayruk writhed with new strength as it, too, partook of the same boon.
Her draught taken, Maraduamnaa relinquished the chalice and turned to the two-legged beasts. “Drink.”
* * *
Nausea twisted Baal-Kephor’s stomach as the spectacle unfolded before him; his atavistic urges told him to take up his inferno rifle and blast the demon, blast Maraduamnaa, and, just to be certain, blast the two-legged beasts. Especially the albino leopard. Then, he could find the egg in the mountain and go to Satan. Such a rare prize would ensure that few questions would be asked.
Still, Baal-Kephor stayed his hand. For as much as he hated demons and the power of chaos, hated that he had allowed himself to become so intimately bound to Maraduamnaa, the truth was that allowing Zeraga Baal’khal to exist under the command of Asmodeus was infinitely worse; few devils could match the fury of the Doomfire. That had been the catalyst for Baal-Kephor seeking out Maraduamnaa in the first place so long ago. Asmodeus did not make a secret of his contempt for some of the other archdevils, notedly Mephistopheles, but the relationship between Asmodeus and Azazel had decayed significantly, too. That put Addaduros in danger. And now, Baal-Kephor had created an opportunity by which he could become the lord of his home.
So long as he endured what was transpiring before him now. And so the former Fang of Azazel watched, and the former Fang of Azazel waited.
Once Maraduamnaa and the two-legged beasts had finished partaking of the eldritch potion, the demon of Qeyy’phon Nyxaria stepped back through the kaleidoscopic portal, which unraveled behind him, and all light left the rune circle, smothering the inside of the ice hut in undulating shadows. The two-legged beasts, shuffling and shambling as though intoxicated, settled down to sleep.
A spider leg caressed Baal-Kephor’s shoulder. Startled, he looked up. Maraduamnaa was standing over him, still naked. Her scent wafted into the devil’s nostrils; it was at once sweet, bitter, and heavy, carnal lust entwined with the brimstone of the Thirteen Hells.
I saw the way you were looking at me during the ritual. the glayruk said, laying a hand on Baal-Kephor’s shoulder.
You did what you had to do. Baal-Kephor replied stoically.
Maraduamnaa giggled. That I did. Now, however, I want pleasure.
What you did wasn’t pleasurable enough? Baal-Kephor turned his gaze to the floor. He already knew where his objective was, and Seth Zhar Ral would surely honor the original pact even if Maraduamnaa, or Lady Dua Mara, as she was known, didn’t come back…
Oh, don’t be like that, Baal-Kephor. Maraduamnaa pouted. Not after everything we’ve been through together.
Her hand glided up to the devil’s cheek, tilting his face up toward her as she crouched down and planted her lips upon him, her mouth slightly open. Baal-Kephor shuddered at the warmth and sensuality, barely managing not to moan as Maraduamnaa gnawed on his lower lip. This was not how she had taken the albino leopard or any of the other two-legged beasts. Baal-Kephor kissed Maraduamnaa back, their tongues joining as the devil pulled her closer, the two lovers soon cocooning themselves in a tenebrous shroud of bat-like wings and segmented spider legs.
I knew that you would come to see things my way. Maraduamnaa said as she lavished kiss after kiss upon Baal-Kephor.
The devil’s only response was a more passionate kiss as he put his hand on Maraduamnaa’s breast, the caresses of his thumb hardening her nipple. He was already becoming aroused, and Maraduamnaa helped with full, gentle strokes.
The two of them were soon coupled, and their love-play lasted long into Argoron’s remorseless winter night.
* * *
The mountain was finally in sight. It towered above all the others, a jagged pyramid of gray crowned by a brilliant white cap. Even from their current distance, Maraduamnaa, Baal-Kephor, and the ten two-legged beasts were like insects before it. It was midday of the thirty-first cycle, and the warband had been marching since dawn, navigating by the map that had been given to them by Seth Zhar Ral. Between the warband and its goal stood more treacherous descents and steep ascents over rocky trails caked with ice.
One of the wolves snorted loudly. “I smell something.”
“What is it?” Maraduamnaa halted; the rest of the warband followed suit.
“Something foul.” The wolf snorted again. “It’s like ogre but worse.”
The other two-legged beasts lifted their noses and sniffed the air; grunts and growls of agreement followed.
“Interesting,” Maraduamnaa said. This was the first time since leaving Ancra-Vo-Yek that the warband had received any sign of other travelers in the mountains. Between the insanity lurking within the mountain, the harshness of the paths, and the ruthlessness of Seth Zhar Ral, it was little wonder why. “Let us follow the scent, then. It’s not like the mountain is going anywhere.”
Are you sure that is the best course of action? Baal-Kephor asked. It could be nothing more than a rotting corpse.
You are certainly right. Maraduamnaa replied. It could be nothing more than a rotting corpse, and, if it is, it will at least give the beasts something more appetizing to feed on than the bland game that this country has offered so far. The glayruk then turned to the wolf and said, “Lead the way.”
“Gladly, Lady Dua.” The beast loped forward in the direction of the scent; the warband followed.
After an hour, they came to a defile that spanned a few hundred feet in length. On the other side was a group of burly figures, larger than Baal-Kephor, lumbering toward them. Maraduamnaa and her warband stopped; the other figures stopped.
“What do we do now, Lady Dua?” asked the wolf who had picked up the scent.
“We find out who they are, of course.” Maraduamnaa pulled her sword of purple metal and twitching teeth from her belt. “Baal-Kephor, would you mind flying ahead?”
“Not at all,” the devil replied.
* * *
Baal-Kephor grinned joyfully as he soared higher and higher, his companions growing smaller and smaller. It had been too long since he had been allowed to use his wings, and he found the air beneath them crisp and refreshing compared to the siroccos that so often ravaged the skies of Addaduros. Now midway between his warband and the other, Baal-Kephor descended slightly and cast a short spell as he readied his war-blade and his inferno rifle. The devil’s vision extended and snapped into sharp focus as though he were looking through a telescope.
The hulking brutes of the other warband, ten in total, had pale blue skin, and vestigial limbs, stunted and atrophied, sprouted from between patches of darker blue warpaint. Tusks the size of daggers jutted from their mouths, framed by dirty yellow beards with streaks of gray and white running through them. Their armor was an amalgamation of furs, leather, and metal.
What the wolf had said about the scent had been right. The brutes certainly weren’t ogres; they were worse. To Baal-Kephor, they seemed more like frost giants, albeit degenerate ones.
Before the devil could start flying back to his warband, one of the degenerates locked eyes with him and let out a guttural roar; another degenerate looked up and hurled a javelin that was as long as Baal-Kephor was tall. The devil pointed his inferno rifle at the javelin and pulled the trigger. A superheated ray screamed forth, evaporating the javelin and sending ashes raining down. Aiming his rifle lower, Baal-Kephor fired again. The degenerates scattered; Baal-Kephor’s shot struck ice and turned it into a cloud of steam. As the devil’s foes came back together, he glanced over his shoulder. The other members of his warband were already advancing.
Good. he thought.
Three more javelins flew toward Baal-Kephor, moving as slow as the first one. The devil’s inferno rifle let out one shriek after another as he shot them down; it was child’s play. He then descended, his wings slicing through the air as he called upon his hellfire to ensorcell his war-blade. It would have been easy to stay in the air and shoot at the degenerates, but Baal-Kephor wanted the rush of close quarters combat, blade-to-blade. That, too, was a pleasure that he had been denied for too long.
The devil crashed down in front of one of the degenerates, his sword already carving a vicious arc through the air toward the brute. The degenerate roared, ropes of spittle flying from a maw filled with jagged, cracked teeth as he brought his maul down upon Baal-Kephor. The devil was faster; the hellfire about his sword immolated the degenerate’s armor as the blade sliced into his thigh, red steam rising from the wound. Baal-Kephor drew his weapon back and whirled out of the way of his foe’s strike, now thrown off course by the degenerate’s body shifting as he screamed in pain. The patch of rock where Baal-Kephor had been standing cracked as the degenerate’s maul slammed into it.
Another degenerate cleaved at Baal-Kephor with his axe, air whooshing as the blade tore through it. The devil flew up and out of the way, at which point he darted toward his foe, his arm snapping forward. Wet tearing and harsh seething ensued as Baal-Kephor’s war-blade ripped open the degenerate’s throat; his cry of pain devolved into a gurgle as he dropped his weapon and staggered back, his hands clamped around his mortal wound.
The sound of the degenerate crashing to the ground was drowned out by the din of roars, howls, and wails as Maraduamnaa and the two-legged beasts arrived. “Kill them all!” the glayruk cried, pointing her purple sword forward, the weapon’s teeth twitching and spasming. “Kill them all, for their corpses shall be your feast!”
The four lions rushed forward and felled one of the degenerates with swift strokes of their weapons, weapons that soon found the brute’s heart. Another degenerate suffered a similar fate from the assault of the other two-legged beasts, reduced to a mangled mound of shattered limbs, meaty ropes, and flowing gore.
“Die!” one of the degenerates cried as he charged Maraduamnaa, his monolithic hammer raised over his head.
Maraduamnaa cast a short spell, and the blade of her sword writhed as it spat a bolt of actinic purple lightning, so bright that it was nearly pink, at her foe. It slammed into the degenerate’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. Baal-Kephor leaped at the degenerate a moment later. The devil drove his war-blade into his foe’s belly; blood sprayed forth as the stench of charred flesh filled the air.
The battle soon became a massacre. The two-legged beasts felled and savaged the degenerates; Baal-Kephor used his war-blade and hellfire to give form to his wrath; Maraduamnaa unleashed more sorceries learned from the powers of Ag’graaza. By the time the last of the degenerates had fallen, the two-legged beasts were feasting upon motionless mounds of flesh, adding to the moribund tableau all around. The hellfire about Baal-Kephor’s war-blade unraveled as he rejoined Maraduamnaa.
Not too bad for their first battle. the glayruk said appraisingly, her smile like that of an approving mother.
Baal-Kephor didn’t feel the same pride. Without him and Maraduamnaa, the two-legged beasts surely would have died; they were merely mortals. That one is still twitching. Baal-Kephor gestured toward one of the fallen degenerates with his war-blade.
That is of no matter. The beasts will get to him soon enough, or he will simply succumb to his wounds.
I’m saying that we should get to him before either of those things happen. He may have information useful to our cause.
Maraduamnaa sighed with mocking exasperation. I suppose there is that. Very well. Let us see if there’s anything intelligible in that brain of his.
Baal-Kephor and Maraduamnaa walked over to the still-twitching degenerate; the two-legged beasts were too thoroughly occupied by their charnel feasts to pay the devil and the glayruk any mind, gobbets of flesh and strands of blood flying like confetti as the two passed by. They stopped next to the degenerate’s head. His eyes were open but glazing over.
“Kill… Kill… Kill…” His voice was harsh but weak, and blood frothed up from his throat as he forced his lips to form the words.
“Oh no,” Maraduamnaa said suavely, “there’ll be none of that. Who are you?”
For an instant, the degenerate’s eyes turned toward the glayruk before rolling back up toward the sky. A vestigial arm upon his shoulder, stunted, malformed, and ending in a three-fingered claw, reached out. “Kill…” A fresh stream of blood trickled from his mouth.
I don’t think we’re going to get anything from him. Maraduamnaa said to Baal-Kephor.
Not with normal methods, no. the devil said.
He turned his focus upon the degenerate, entering the brute’s mind. On the surface, it was just as clouded as his eyes. What little energy he had left was devoted to clinging to a life that would be neither long-lived nor lived well. That made him easy prey for Baal-Kephor.
The devil cut through the outer fog and ventured deeper into the degenerate’s mind. The memories within were violent and fragmented, devoted almost exclusively to violence and the celebration of it. Still, Baal-Kephor learned that the degenerate and the rest of his warband had indeed come from the mountain ahead. Collectively, their species called themselves the jût, and these were part of the Frostfang Clan, one of many such clans. The next memory Baal-Kephor witnessed was that of the jût warband standing in a decently sized cavern, perhaps half the size of the one which served as Azazel’s throne room. At the center stood a pedestal with a towering silver statue upon it that held—
Everything became a sheet of undulating, unrelenting crimson. It then faded to black, and Baal-Kephor was snapped back to reality. The jût was now completely motionless.
You didn’t have to concentrate that hard to kill him. Maraduamnaa said. Your blade would have been simpler.
I was looking through his memories. Baal-Kephor replied. He then told Maraduamnaa what he had learned.
Lovely. There’s more of them. A lot more.
And the silver statue is inevitably the simulacrum we seek.
Yes. The jût worship it as their god. Perhaps they’ll worship us once we’ve taken it for ourselves.
Perhaps. Baal-Kephor thought less of the jût than he did the two-legged beasts but would not refuse another fighting force, especially one less likely to betray him than the one promised by Seth Zhar Ral. Since I have seen the room with the silver simulacrum, would you be able to teleport us there?
It would be risky. The image you received wasn’t complete, and the veil between this world and Ag’graaza is so thin already. Finding an entrance shouldn’t be too difficult anyway.
Fair enough. Let’s keep moving.
Maraduamnaa called the two-legged beasts from their feast, and though there were some grunts and growls of annoyance, they all obeyed; the warband passed through the remainder of the defile.
* * *
Three more cycles passed before the warband reached the base of the mountain. The time had been filled with hard marching and slaughtering more bands of jût. From the memories of those who had been the last to die, Baal-Kephor learned of the Bonegnasher, Deatheye, and Winterlord clans, yet all further glimpses of the silver simulacrum had been entirely too brief.
The warband, now short two lions and two wolves who had died during the previous battles, entered the mountain through a yawning cavern. It led into a tunnel that could easily accommodate a pair of jût walking side by side. The air within was as cold and heavy as it had been outside, and a few patches of stone brick clung to the tunnel walls like an obstinate rash. Upon one of the patches was carved a few lines of rigid, weapon-like runes that Baal-Kephor didn’t recognize.
Can you read these? he asked Maraduamnaa.
The glayruk glanced over at the runes and then shook her head. No, but they look like some dialect of the frost giant language, likely as bastardized as the jût are.
As the warband proceeded deeper into the tunnel, they encountered more and more such runes upon the ever more frequent and ever larger brick patches, as though the city that had once existed within were trying to regenerate. As they passed by another runed patch, it flared up with brilliant azure light.
Baal-Kephor fired his inferno rifle at the runes, erasing them and melting the stone bricks. A thick white mist then appeared; from it stepped a humanoid, lizard-like creature that was as large as one of the jût. White scales covered the whole of its body; its crest and frills were pale gray; its four eyes were slit-like and glowing with azure light. In its right hand, the lizard-creature held a sword of blue metal with a thick blade ending in a large disc that had serrated black edges. A great circular shield of the same blue metal, as wide as Maraduamnaa was tall, covered most of the creature’s left arm; upon the shield was engraved a star of chaos encased within a weird pattern of linked right angles that glowed with the same azure light as the creature’s eyes.
A demon. Maraduamnaa said to Baal-Kephor. Let me see if I can bend it to my will.
I cannot guarantee that it will survive that long. the devil replied grimly.
Now, now, Baal-Kephor. Remember what you said about needing information?
Before Baal-Kephor could reply, a blue ray streaked from each of the demon’s eyes as it marched toward the warband. The first ray struck a wolf; the second struck the red-haired ape; the third struck a lion. All three were immediately petrified in ice. The fourth ray had been aimed at Baal-Kephor, but he leaped out of the way and retaliated with his inferno rifle. The demon blocked with its shield, the surface of it shimmering as it absorbed the superheated ray. The next moment saw the demon close the distance to Baal-Kephor and bring its sword down upon him.
The devil parried with his war-blade, the weapon snarling as it collided with the demon’s sword. As Baal-Kephor drew his war-blade back, he brought his inferno rifle forward. All of the runes upon its hexagonal barrel glowed with sanguine light as the devil pulled the trigger. The white-hot ray that issued forth punched through the demon’s right shoulder and left a miasma of fetid black mist in its wake.
The albino leopard and a lion, the last of the two-legged beasts, threw themselves at the demon, painting lacerations upon its thighs with their weapons, claws, and fangs while the words to an incantation, slithering and hypnotic, poured from Maraduamnaa’s lips. The demon sliced the albino leopard in half with its sword as it caved in the lion’s face with its shield; gore sprayed from both beasts as they unceremoniously dropped to the ground with wet thuds.
A lungless shriek heralded the next shot from Baal-Kephor’s inferno rifle. The demon blocked the lance of scathing death with its shield as four blue rays streaked from its eyes, all aimed at Baal-Kephor. The devil pointed his war-blade forward, and a torrent of hellfire raged forth, colliding with the eye-rays in mutual annihilation. As the hissing steam cleared, the demon cleaved at Baal-Kephor.
From behind the devil came a bright pink glow as Maraduamnaa finished her spell. The demon halted in mid-swing. Its eyes were narrowed with concentration; its mouth was fixed into a scowl. Baal-Kephor stepped back and aimed his inferno rifle at the demon’s head. He then telepathically reached out to Maraduamnaa.
The glayruk’s mind was austere with concentration, as cold and unyielding as the ice that had petrified three of the two-legged beasts. Her spell had worked. Barely.
Baal-Kephor considered pulling the trigger of his inferno rifle right then and there. He almost did when the demon lurched forward, nearly taking a step but not quite. The only thing that kept Baal-Kephor at bay was the need for information.
A din of roaring, stomping, and clanging had Baal-Kephor pointing his inferno rifle deeper into the tunnel. From beyond stormed a band of jût, though Baal-Kephor couldn’t tell how many there were. It didn’t matter; he started shooting. The inferno rifle spat ray after superheated ray, one, two, three, the runes upon the barrel glowing bright with ever intensifying malevolence.
The first ray evaporated the head of one of the jûts, red mist rising from the stump of the corpse’s neck as he dropped. Another jût roared in pain as the second ray grazed his shoulder. The third ray went too high and struck the tunnel ceiling, sending a shower of rock down upon the jûts but not slowing them; they had already crossed most of the distance.
Baal-Kephor readied his war-blade, the weapon quivering in his grasp as he snapped another shot at his foes. The ray stabbed through the chest of a jût, dark gore and sanguine steam fountaining from the wound. The other jût trampled over their fallen comrade, leaving fleshy sludge in their wake; the next moment saw two of the jût sweeping their weapons at Baal-Kephor, one from either side.
The devil darted forward with a snap of his wings as he struck one of the jûts’ weapons, a crude union of maul and axe. Baal-Kephor’s adamantine blade sheered through the weapon with a shower of sparks and a metallic screech. The other jût’s strike met only open air.
Baal-Kephor’s war-blade was already carving through the air again, seeming to dance of its own volition as its wielder moved with an agility that the jût couldn’t match. Leather, then flesh, was riven by the war-blade’s edge. Ropes of meat spilled from the now-open belly of another jût; gore filled the channel of Baal-Kephor’s weapon.
The devil continued his dance of death, leaping, flying, slicing, and thrusting, decimating the press of flesh, leather, and metal before him. The shrieks of his inferno rifle joined the din as he landed atop a mound of corpses, each shot felling another jût until none were left. No more were coming from further down the tunnel, either, though Baal-Kephor didn’t delude himself into thinking that there weren’t more lying in wait.
He turned to Maraduamnaa. She was still focusing, her eyes glowing with lurid pink light, and the demon was still struggling. Baal-Kephor pointed his inferno rifle at the demon. “Submit to her will, or I will slay you right here.”
For an instant, the demon’s two left eyes met Baal-Kephor’s gaze and looked fully upon the diabolical instrument of death that he wielded. The tip of its barrel was still smoldering.
The demon kneeled, and its four eyes become as pink as Maraduamnaa’s.
* * *
Maraduamnaa’s will surged forward as the demon let down its defenses; it was like a floodgate being opened. Her whole body slackened with relief, and fatigue emanated from her core. The struggle had taken much more out of her than she had anticipated; she couldn’t have won it without Baal-Kephor. She would certainly see to it that he was properly rewarded later. For now, however…
The glayruk assumed her queenly bearing, becoming once more the one known as Lady Dua Mara. What is your name, demon, and under which lord do you serve?
I am J’jexxyn; my lord is Ik’kthatch. The demon’s voice was hoarse, slow, and stilted.
Maraduamnaa had encountered the name Ik’kthatch before during her time on another mortal world, more frigid than Argoron, dedicated to cultivating damned souls for Mephistopheles. Ik’kthatch had been depicted as a dragon, and he had been worshiped by a band of frost giants at war with the bands of mortals dedicated to the Lord of Cocytus. Are there other demons of Ik’kthatch here?
Many. J’jexxyn’s hissed smoothly. We are legion.
And if most of the demons were as powerful as J’jexxyn… Maraduamnaa quelled her unease. What of your lord? Is he here, too?
In a manner of speaking, yes.
Explain.
It will be better if I show you.
Very well. Show me.
In Maraduamnaa’s mind manifested the cavern in which stood the silver simulacrum of Zeraga Baal’khal. The simulacrum was rendered perfectly in shining silver, including its cloak and half-tabard. Instead of wielding an equally immaculate replica of Hellscythe, the simulacrum held an enormous iron maul, as long as its wielder was tall, making Baal-Kephor’s war-blade seem like a training sword, and the dark metal of the maul was inky and tenebrous compared to the simulacrum’s radiance. Eight equidistant flanges, each the side of an axe head, crowned the maul, and sprawling across each side of each flange was line upon line of glowing blue. The pedestal that the silver simulacrum stood upon was engraved with runes similar to those upon the patch of stone brick that had spawned J’jexxyn and glowed with the same azure light.
The simulacrum of Zeraga Baal’khal is Ik’kthatch? Maraduamnaa asked as the image unraveled.
No. Ik’kthatch is within the maul. J’jexxyn replied.
Possessing it? Maraduamnaa had heard of such a thing happening to demons, thus the existence of demon-blades, and, if rumors were to be believed, Hellscythe, but not a being so powerful as a demon lord…
Not of his own volition. It was the work of a frost giant warlock named Koschei the Deathless.
The vizier of Thrym? Is he here, too?
No. Neither Koschei nor any other pureblooded frost giant has been to this place for more than ten thousand years.
And Ik’kthatch has been bound to the maul for that long?
J’jexxyn’s silence was all the confirmation that Maraduamnaa needed. What of the alliance of humans and frost giants that ruled this place? How did it fall?
That was the work of Ik’kthatch. J’jexxyn said. Everyone lusted for the power of the maul, and so the alliance collapsed. These jût are all that remain.
I see. It reminded Maraduamnaa of what had happened to her own race. She had fought in the war to be free of Mephistopheles’s enslavement and had supported Kalmadius Mephiston, the first Hellfire Lord of Clan Mephiston, but the price of victory had been so steep as to make it pyrrhic. During the times that Maraduamnaa had gone to the Everdark Oubliette of Lurxaak, the glayruks she had encountered there had not been the proud infernal warriors she had known, the mortal scions of the thirteen archdevils. No, they had been savages, their traditions a husk of what they had been, their bloodlines decimated by war and incest. It was another reminder of why she sought vengeance upon the Lord of Cocytus, why she would not stop until she sat upon the throne in his palace of Hava’ah. I assume that Ik’kthatch is trying to free himself. How close is he to doing so?
Very. J’jexxyn said.
I see. I have reason to believe that a dragon egg from Kazanor is hidden somewhere in these depths. Is there any truth to that?
J’jexxyn gave no reply.
Well? Maraduamnaa pressed.
I know nothing of such a thing. J’jexxyn said. I know nothing of Kazanor.
Is that so? Maraduamnaa went deeper into J’jexxyn’s mind, sifting through his memories. Many were about the jût, the silver simulacrum, and the mountain itself. There was nothing about a dragon egg. Maraduamnaa pulled back.
Very well. she said. You are telling the truth. Now, you will guide my devil servant and I to the silver simulacrum of Zeraga Baal’khal, and you will also tell any jût we encounter that we are honored guests, summoned by their god. If any of them try to stop us, you will aid us in slaying them. Do I make myself clear?
Though J’jexxyn said nothing back, submission emanated from him.
Good. Maraduamnaa smiled.
Pulling herself from J’jexxyn’s mind, Maraduamnaa reached out to Baal-Kephor and relayed what she had learned.
We have no time to waste, then. the devil replied. I don’t like the idea of facing off against a demon lord.
Nor do I, and if Ik’kthatch remains bound in the maul, then we have another resource at our disposal. Maraduamnaa reached out to J’jexxyn. We are ready. Lead the way.
The End
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Next Chapter: Lamenter's Doom
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