This is the tenth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The ninth chapter, Lamenter's Doom, can be found here:
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
Kragdor was bored. Nine cycles had passed since the jût had been allowed to leave the mountain as part of a patrol; he had instead been told to stay at the tunnel he was currently in and await the return of the last patrol. Kragdor wasn’t sure that the last patrol would return at all; the flesh of those jût were probably nourishing another clan by now. That would call for vengeance. The Deatheye Clan had built a reputation for being brutal and merciless; they had eyes for death. Kragdor was proud to have contributed to that reputation. He had slain more jût than he had fingers, the ones on his shoulders included, in the past years. Their hearts and brains had been delicious; Kragdor was stronger because of them.
But, that strength was being wasted now. Chieftain Gurddak thought otherwise, of course; a strong jût was needed to make sure that none came to attack the Deatheye Clan while its best warriors were gone. Kragdor was sure that he knew the real reason for his assignment, though. Gurddak was afraid. The chieftain had already lived for forty years, if the rumors were to be believed, and he was growing slow and weak. Kragdor had seen it in the other jût’s movements: the way he hobbled around, the way he leaned on his staff, how she-jût refused to couple with him.
Given a patrol’s worth of warriors at his command, Kragdor would easily be able to slaughter Gurddak, and then he would be Chieftain of the Deatheye Clan because he would kill any jût who said otherwise. Kragdor licked lips crusted with old gore as he imagined coupling with a she-jût, multiple she-jût, atop Gurddak’s corpse, his head mounted on a spear and forced to watch. A pleasurable shudder ran down Kragdor’s spine. Which of the she-jût should he couple with? That was perhaps the most difficult question of the whole plan. The Deatheye Clan was blessed with a wealth of options.
Hhrasha was large, nearly as large as Kragdor himself, and as skilled with an axe as any male jût. Any jûtlings from her loins would surely be strong as well. Zuusha had four breasts. That alone made her a popular mate, and she could nurse a whole brood of jûtlings at once. She also was one of the more docile she-jût, which boded well for not being betrayed. There was also Kaligaza, who knew the secrets of the evil eye; she could make a jût’s brain melt with but a glance. Kragdor was scared of her, but taking her as a mate would arguably solidify his position more than any other she-jût in the clan. And that was before considering how many more she-jût would undoubtedly come begging to bear Kragdor’s jûtlings once he was the chieftain of the Deatheye Clan.
The appearance of three figures in the tunnel beyond pulled Kragdor from his fantasizing. Had the patrol, or at least what remained of it, finally returned? What had they encountered that had slain so many of them? A fresh realization perished Kragdor’s next questions. The newcomers weren’t jût. At least, two of them weren’t; they were too small and didn’t have nearly enough muscle. Kragdor wasn’t sure about the third, either. What it was, it was certainly large enough to be a jût, but Kragdor couldn’t make out its features at this distance.
“Who comes before the Deatheye Clan?” Kragdor called, his voice stentorian and thick with saliva.
No answer. The newcomers continued forward; Kragdor was soon able to make out their features. All jût could naturally see in the dark, but only to a certain degree. One of the larger beings was a muscular man with a head and legs that were scaled and bestial. He wore a spiked pauldron on his left shoulder, and he held a sword and another strange weapon that looked much like a staff. The largest being was a white-scaled, humanoid lizard holding a sword and shield of blue metal. The smallest of the three walked between the two larger ones, clad in orange metal with spider legs coming out of its back and shoulders.
All in all, definitely not jût. Kragdor brandished his axe and lurched forward, a moment away from charging.
I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The voice was sibilant and authoritative, and Kragdor heard it only in his mind. We come on the orders of Great Ik’kthatch. To bar our way is to defy his will.
Kragdor’s body shook as he let out a booming, boisterous laugh. He was no fool. He had seen the servants of Great Ik’kthatch, those who truly had been blessed by the mighty ice dragon from the Primordial Abyss. These newcomers were no such beings. Kragdor charged.
The winged being pointed his strange staff forward, and it glowed bright red as an orange-white ray screamed forth, bathing the tunnel in effulgence that blinded Kragdor. Nauseating, disorienting, all-encompassing agony followed as the jût’s armor, skin and flesh melted from the ray punching through him. The stench of his own blood, nearly as bad as excrement, hung heavily in the air. He fell to his knees. Another unliving scream came; the next ray evaporated Kragdor’s head and ushered the would-be chieftain of the Deatheye Clan into blissful oblivion.
* * *
Baal-Kephor was irritated that it had taken two shots to slay the jût. He had been aiming for the head the first time, but with all the vestigial limbs that the degenerates wore like other species wore jewelry, it was sometimes hard to find the right head, especially at a distance. That jût had been tougher than most, too. Now, Baal-Kephor had his war-blade brandished as he, Maraduamnaa, and J’jexxyn passed by the corpse that somehow managed to smell better in death than it had in life. Further down the tunnel, at the very edge of what the travelers could see, lay the outlines of huts, barely distinguishable from the surrounding boulders. Blob-like, vaguely humanoid forms lumbered between them.
Well, Baal-Kephor said, so much for telling them that we were sent by their god.
The jût like to fight. J’jexxyn replied offhandedly.
Baal-Kephor didn’t dignify the obvious statement with a response. The movement ahead grew faster, and the hulking forms of more jût overshadowed the dwellings from which they had come. Baal-Kephor fired his inferno rifle one, two, three times. One of the jût bellowed out a cacophony born of agony as it fell; the others ran toward Baal-Kephor and his companions, oddly resembling wasps that had been provoked from their nest.
Ray after superheated ray screamed from Baal-Kephor’s inferno rifle, a pain-filled roar and a loud thud following each shot. The devil and his companions continued when the jût had finally stopped coming, entering the village ahead. To call it a village was compliment; it was nothing more than a collection of crude stone huts that had been hastily erected in a slightly wider section of tunnel, perhaps what passed as an outpost among the half-witted jût. Baal-Kephor was thankful that no more of the abominations were present; killing them had long ago lost its novelty and had instead become tedious.
The three travelers didn’t linger in the village, either. Not far beyond lay a fork in the tunnel, and J’jexxyn guided Baal-Kephor and Maraduamnaa down the right-hand path, a steep descent with more runed, cobblestone rashes upon the walls, dimly pulsing with cerulean light. Baal-Kephor flexed his grip on his weapons, readying himself for the next foe to appear. He couldn’t wait to leave the mountain.
* * *
Ik’kthatch would have smiled had he been capable of doing so. Confined to the rune-etched maul in the grasp of the silver simulacrum of Zeraga Baal’khal, the demon lord could express his pleasure only with a burst of bright blue light, bathing the room in its radiance and seen by no one else. He had felt the presence of the glayruk and the devil as soon as they had entered his mountain. How could he not have? The blood of his most hated foes pumped in their veins, practically begging to be spilled.
Too long had it been since Ik’kthatch had slaughtered the scions of the Thirteen Hells, too long since any of those scions had entered the mountain at all. They had no reason to and had likely forgotten about the mountain entirely. The metallic clone of their greatest champion hadn’t emerged in millennia, and the ones who had become the jût had long ago forgotten the rite of reanimation, instead content to blindly worship the simulacrum and beg for its power to use in petty wars waged for petty reasons. So it was, therefore, that Ik’kthatch suffered from a plague of hatefulness and stupidity that never stopped feeding itself.
A plague that would soon end. There was more to Ik’kthatch’s joy than the prospect of drenching his claws in diabolical sanguinary fluids. The glayruk’s soul ripened with the essence of Ag’graaza more and more with each passing moment, and another soul formed in her womb, already infused with the power of chaos by virtue of the flesh that nurtured it. She would be the catalyst for allowing the realm of demons to flood into the mountain. She would be the catalyst of Ik’kthatch’s freedom.
The trapped demon lord exerted his will; the runes upon the maul pulsed ardently as another consciousness from within the Primordial Chaos-Void came to him. What is thy bidding, master? The voice was sibilant and rasping, somewhere between a serpent and an insect.
Ik’kthatch transmitted images of the devil and the glayruk, having already seen them through J’jexxyn’s eyes. Bring them to me.
It will be done.
* * *
Ropes of gore fell from Baal-Kephor’s war-blade as coils of meat fell from the opened belly of the jût before him. The degenerates had appeared out of nowhere, suddenly surrounding the devil and his companions in the cavern as they entered. One of them, bedecked in gore-crusted bones and talismans and holding a gnarled staff of equally morbid make, brayed out a baleful incantation. Baal-Kephor let out a frustrated hiss as he blew away one jût with his inferno rifle and blocked the strike of another with his war-blade. He hadn’t expected the bastards to be capable of magic.
To the devil’s right, J’jexxyn’s arms rose and fell as he traded blows with more jût, reaping life after life. Maraduamnaa held a patch of ground just behind the immortal warriors, her sword ensorcelled with chaos-flame and her eyes glowing with eldritch light. She drove back the nearest jût with a shield bash, the degenerate barking in pain as he was sent stumbling away only to be cut down by J’jexxyn’s next cleave. Maraduamnaa’s attention then snapped onto the chanting shaman, the words of a spell pouring from her mouth.
The shaman’s voice loudened, and he pointed his staff forward. A thick, electric din shattered the air as a claw of ice as large as any jût formed over Baal-Kephor and his companions, immediately sweeping toward Maraduamnaa. Her spell fell dead on her lips as she leaped out of the way, evading most of the claw; its thumb scraped across her right pauldron and threw her to the ground. Baal-Kephor whirled around as the glayruk cried out. The ice claw was already poised to strike again as the jût shaman cast another spell. More of the shaman’s degenerate brethren pressed in from all sides.
Swinging his left arm up, Baal-Kephor pulled the trigger of his inferno rifle as he willed hellfire to ensorcell his war-blade; a din of shrieking and seething shredded the air amid flashes of radiance. The resultant super-heated ray perforated the ice-claw’s palm, the hissing steam revealing an ersatz stigma as it dissipated. The ice-claw turned upon Baal-Kephor; three jût threw themselves at the devil; the shaman finished casting his spell.
A whip of blue lightning exploded from the shaman’s staff as a barrage of blows fell upon Baal-Kephor. The devil turned aside one blade with his own, a torrent of hellfire melting the face of the jût who had struck the blow, and he beat back another blade with his inferno rifle before sidestepping the third blow. Just in time to be struck by the lightning whip.
The ravaging tendrils of ultramarine sorcery excoriated Baal-Kephor, leaving blackened wounds upon his flesh. Blood sprayed from his chest as the ice claw ripped into him and sent him staggering back. As the claw swept up to strike another blow, Baal-Kephor let off a snapshot with his inferno rifle, evaporating the claw’s thumb. As if in anger, the conjuration surged toward the devil. He yielded more ground as he cleaved with his sword, amputating a finger and throwing the claw off course amid another miasma of hissing steam. From behind came another jût whose face was promptly caved in by a bash of Baal-Kephor’s inferno rifle, gore gushing from the mangled ruin of flesh and bone.
A lance of chaos-flame heralded Maraduamnaa’s rising; the sorcery engulfed the ice claw, devouring it until there was only steam left.
Thank you. Baal-Kephor said gruffly as he parried the strike of another jût, the hellfire about his war-blade melting the degenerate’s weapon.
Let’s get through this, Maraduamnaa replied, and we’ll worry about whose thanking who later. More chaos-flame coruscated across the blade of her purple sword, its teeth twitching rabidly as another kaleidoscopic lance burst forth, streaking toward the jût shaman.
The other spellcaster countered with a hastily conjured ice lance. Maraduamnaa’s flames reduced the jût’s ice to mist and seethed onward, the many-colored lance punching through the shaman’s shoulder. His throaty cry of agony rose above the din of battle as he fell to his knees. The nine remaining jût warriors fell back toward him.
Let’s keep the shaman alive. Maraduamnaa said.
Both Baal-Kephor and J’jexxyn gave the telepathic equivalent of a nod as they set about the work of butchering the jût warriors, ropes of gore and gobbets of flesh flying everywhere as their arms rose and fell, the cleaving and slicing occasionally broken by the scream of Baal-Kephor’s inferno rifle. Soon, the devil and the demon held the jût shaman at blade-point. All he could do was glare.
Maraduamnaa came forward to stand between her companions, looking no less regal and imperious despite how much smaller she was. So, she said, your kind is still capable of magic.
I will tell you nothing, bitch-creature. the shaman snarled back.
That is a poor way to address those who have been sent by Ik’kthatch himself, or are you somehow blind to the fact that one of his demons helped my devil servant and I slaughter your warriors?
You are a liar and a whore. You have merely used your magics to enslave and debase Ik’kthatch’s glorious servant, and I can smell the ripe bitterness upon you. You have opened your loins for the devil and now bear his child.
Maraduamnaa twitched as she forced her face to remain an austere, apathetic mask. I’m going to give you one last chance.
I do not fear death, bitch-creature. Do your worst.
Maraduamnaa scowled. She turned to Baal-Kephor and nodded. The devil’s left arm became a blur as he planted the tip of his inferno rifle’s barrel on the jût shaman’s cheek and pulled the trigger. Orange-white radiance flashed across the tunnel as the jût’s head evaporated into sanguine mist, his body crumpling to the ground in a wet heap.
Did you get anything useful out of him? Baal-Kephor asked.
No. Maraduamnaa’s voice was cold and harsh. Let’s keep going.
Deeper and deeper the three travelers went into the tunnel, keeping a tight formation with J’jexxyn at the head. Baal-Kephor found himself constantly throwing glances at Maraduamnaa, born from a need to protect her that was at once both alien and instinctual. Was this what mortals called love, that supposedly higher form of lust? Baal-Kephor glanced at Maraduamnaa again. Even scowling as she was, he couldn’t help but find her beautiful; she was closer to devildom than any mortal he had met before. A barely audible sigh slid from his lips, and he was glad that it went unheard by Maraduamnaa. In that moment, Baal-Kephor vowed that no matter what happened, he would ensure that Maraduamnaa Mephiston returned to the Thirteen Hells alive.
Ominously, a chill wind blew across Baal-Kephor and his companions. The tunnel flattened out for a few strides before terminating entirely; the three travelers now stood at the threshold of a cavern that dwarfed all the others they had passed through. The miles-high ceiling was a maze of monolithic stalactites and meandering crevasses, and a morass of ruined streets and fortresses obscured a back wall that was at least a hundred miles away. The scene reminded Baal-Kephor of Avernus, the first of the Thirteen Hells, though the rivers and lakes of lava were absent, as was the ever-present River Styx.
Directly in front of Baal-Kephor and his companions was a crumbling stone bridge, a husk of its former self that retained only a few weathered arches and head-sized sapphires that were cracked and dulled from the ravages of time. Below yawned a pharaonic canyon, a hideous earthen maw within which was contained an eternity of darkness. The chill wind blew again, stronger, colder, beckoning.
Be on your guard. J’jexxyn said. We are coming closer to the heart of the mountain. Only the strongest jût clans can claim the right to live here, and they must contend with far more than just each other.
Then the silver simulacrum is nearby? Maraduamnaa asked.
We have further yet to go, assuming that the veil between this place and Ag’graaza does not unravel entirely and allow the Primordial Chaos-Void to come flooding in.
You would like that, wouldn’t you?
J’jexxyn gave no reply.
Ever forward then, I suppose. Maraduamnaa said to Baal-Kephor.
Ever forward. the devil agreed.
The three travelers walked onto the senescent bridge. When they were about a quarter of the way across, Maraduamnaa cried out as a patch of stone suddenly gave out under her, leaving her hoof dangling over the abyss as she clung to the surrounding stone with her spider legs. Baal-Kephor darted over to her and extended his hand, catching a glimpse of a gnarled chunk of stone disappearing into the darkness, seemingly evaporating. Maraduamnaa took the devil’s hand, and he pulled her up; she staggered forward and threw her arms around his waist. He smiled.
Pandemonium reared up from the abyss in the form of shrieks and roars that could have come from no mortal mouth, followed by a third wind that drove Baal-Kephor and his companions back with its howling. Baal-Kephor held Maraduamnaa tight as he spread his wings and took flight; J’jexxyn sank his hind claws into the stone, yielding only a few steps of ground. Black horrors flew up from the black depths, lanky, bestial creatures with lurid red eyes, distended claws, bat-like wings, and manes of dark fur that were the color of inexorable gangrene. Had there been a sky, the horrors would have blotted it out with their rising; they let out another bestial cacophony as they descended upon those who dared to intrude upon its domain.
Cerulean rays streaked from J’jexxyn’s eyes as Baal-Kephor ferried Maraduamnaa toward the ground. Four of the demons fell back into the abyss, petrified; the rest closed the distance, a storm of fangs and claws shredding the air as they lunged and swiped at J’jexxyn. The white-scaled, lizard-like demon cleaved with his sword as he blocked with his shield, his arms a blur of motion as his eyes disgorged more gelid rays. Demons cried in pain as they were decapitated and impaled and disemboweled, the rich, stinking odor of gore and entrails filling the air. Those that were petrified had no time to scream; they simply fell. Through it all, J’jexxyn endured gouges and lacerations that stripped away his scales and carved into the flesh beneath, his own sanguinary fluids flowing out to join the morbid tableaus all around.
A trio of snapshots screamed from Baal-Kephor’s inferno rifle as he touched down with Maraduamnaa at the threshold just before the bridge. The first superheated ray soared into the ceiling as a cluster of demons overhead scattered, a faint rumble sounding off as a stalactite crumbled. The second shot perforated a demon’s chest, crimson mist billowing from the entry and exit wounds as it fell in a ragged spiral. Another demon shrieked in agony as the third ray evaporated its foot. Fresh hatred burning in its eyes, the demon gathered a group of its fellows and charged Baal-Kephor.
Maraduamnaa slid out from her rescuer’s embrace and tore her sword from her belt as she started casting a spell. A soul-shuddering darkness turned her eyes as black as the abyss below as she drank in the demonic power all around, channeling that manifestation of Ag’graaza. Baal-Kephor’s inferno rifle didn’t stop screaming; more demons shrieked as they dropped like flies; Maraduamnaa began the next verse of the deathly song with the cry of her spell’s climax. A swarm of long claws formed from black bone, skinless and fleshless, flew from her sword to assail the demons. Pitched battle now reigned above.
Go aid J’jexxyn. Maraduamnaa said to Baal-Kephor. We need to get across the bridge, and he is already overwhelmed.
Are you sure that you will be fine back here alone? Baal-Kephor asked, his tone so heavy with concern that he surprised himself.
Maraduamnaa chuckled. Yes. This whole adventure was my idea, remember?
Baal-Kephor gave the telepathic equivalent of a nod before spreading his wings and taking flight, hellfire howling into existence about his war-blade. Rationally, the devil knew that Maraduamnaa could hold her own. She was a mortal who had mastered the sorcery of chaos better than the denizens of Ag’graaza before her now, and she had hidden that fact from the archdevils of the Thirteen Hells, having lived right under Azazel’s nose for thousands of years, all after having fought in the Exodus to free her kind from slavery under those same archdevils. And yet, Baal-Kephor couldn’t keep himself from worrying. He had never felt this way about the glayruk before. He wasn’t sure why he felt this way now, but swearing the oath to protect her had just felt so right.
Channeling his emotions into a bloodcurdling scream, Baal-Kephor fired his inferno rifle again and again and again, shattering another cluster of demons. The next moment saw the devil landing next to a bloodied J’jexxyn and laying into more of his foes with great sweeps of his war-blade, the hellfire-wreathed weapon like a scythe harvesting ripened grain.
The murder of demons melted before the onslaught of Baal-Kephor and his companions, a morbid rain of flesh gobbets and blood ropes falling all around. More demons soared up from the abyss to avenge the fallen while torrents of chaos-flame and more skeletal black claws raged overhead, Maraduamnaa’s baleful incantations sounding off behind.
Swinging their weapons and unleashing rays of petrifying ice and superheated death, Baal-Kephor and J’jexxyn forced their way forward, suffering a wound for every inch they took. The bridge shed the mangled corpses of slain demons like the prow of a ship breaking through turgid waves. When Baal-Kephor and J’jexxyn were more than halfway across, the chill wind howled again. The devil and demon sunk their claws into the dilapidated stone, remaining stationary, their swords continuing to rise and fall as they slew more demons.
Where do these bastards keep coming from? Baal-Kephor’s telepathic voice rumbled with frustration, though he knew the answer well enough.
This is one of the oldest rifts to Ag’graaza within the mountain. J’jexxyn decapitated another foe as he blocked more attacks with his shield. It was formed by the mages and warlocks of the humans and frost giants during their conflicts with each other before they started to merge into the jût.
Baal-Kephor fired his inferno rifle; another demon died. Of course J’jexxyn had led him and Maraduamnaa here. Why wouldn’t he? It was the demon’s best chance at getting rid of the devil and the glayruk who had enslaved him. Baal-Kephor fought harder now, wanting to be clear of the bridge before something even more terrible awoke, and yet time seemed to distend, slowing his every move. Hot agony radiated from his wounds, more punishing than the grim red sun of his native Addaduros, enough to slay a trio of mortals or more. And still, his war-blade was a blur of steel and flame, red mist streaming from the blood channel. He slew another trio of demons with well-placed shots from his inferno rifle; J’jexxyn shot more icy rays. It was then that Baal-Kephor finally realized that he and his demonic companion were on the other side of the bridge.
A moment later, Maraduamnaa was with them. You didn’t think that I would let the two of you leave me behind, did you?
For one of the few times in a life that had spanned eons by mortal reckoning, Baal-Kephor felt guilty. He had forgotten about Maraduamnaa while taking the bridge. Luckily, she knew how to teleport. Let’s go to where these demons can’t get to us.
I like that. Maraduamnaa replied.
Through that arch. J’jexxyn pointed his sword forward. We can form a chokepoint and slay them at our leisure. A fresh volley of icy rays streaked from his eyes as he looked back.
Under the cover of fire, ice, and chaos sorcery, the three travelers fled into the ruins beyond, falling corpses of slain demons billowing behind them.
* * *
Maraduamnaa Mephiston was straining on the inside; she had expended too much of herself during the battle for the bridge, and, furthermore, she was sure that the potion given to her by the demon of Qeyy’phon Nyxaria was wearing off. In the back of the glayruk’s mind lurked a gibbering non-voice, almost speaking, almost making sense. In her heart and soul, Maraduamnaa could feel what it was offering: power, wealth, and everything else she could ever want, nine-fold.
She refused it.
She and her companions were now fully inside one of the ruined fortresses, entering a corridor, and she felt as though they had gone back in time. The walls, floor, and ceiling were great expanses of pristine stone bedecked with flowing knotwork and runes in which were encased meticulous friezes depicting mighty battles between valorous heroes and horrific beasts. Ahead, another arch, bedecked with silver filigree that had sapphires embedded in it, stood like a great crown. It led into a large room that was about a hundred feet on all sides. At the center stood a fountain that had long ago gone silent, and around it were curved stone planters that had not borne life in the same amount of time. A statue stood at each corner of the room; two were knights and two were wizards, each diagonally across from the other of its kind. Between each pair of statues was an archway into another corridor, turning the room into a four-way intersection.
Maraduamnaa reached out with her telepathy, scanning the room for any foreign mental presences. Even an act as remedial as that had the glayruk’s jaw tightening as the eerie gibbering reared up, promising to reduce that act of magic to being simpler than breathing. And again, Maraduamnaa refused. She retracted her mental presence; she and her companions were the only ones in the room, not that she was necessarily surprised to learn that there were no jût lying in wait.
Which way do we go now? she asked J’jexxyn.
To the left. The demon was already walking in that direction.
Maraduamnaa gave a wan smile. That was something, at least; glayruk wisdom dictated that the left-hand path was the safest. Still, she started to cast a spell, gritting her teeth as she dredged up more power from her well of magic, trying not to think about what this new exertion would do to the life growing inside her. She finished the spell; great ropes of humming, violet energy, the essence of pure necromancy, flared into existence about her, falling upon her in a manner eerily similar to that of the demons beneath the bridge. The fell power banished her exhaustion and filled her with new vigor.
J’jexxyn stopped; his gaze snapped onto Maraduamnaa. What have you done?
As if on cue, heat wash distorted the whole room, and a chorus of snarls and growls reverberated all around. Baal-Kephor had already taken up a fighting stance. Nine orbs of black and orange, fire encased in blackened bone, manifested in a wide circle about the edges of the room. Baal-Kephor’s inferno rifle screamed, but the rays passed though the orbs as though they weren’t there at all, slamming into the walls and blackening the stone. As the devil realized the futility of his attacks, he stopped and moved closer to Maraduamnaa. She would have been lying if she had said that she didn’t feel safer in his presence. The glayruk tugged on her telepathic connection with J’jexxyn, willing him to move closer. He obeyed.
Each of the orbs of black bone and seething flames metamorphosed into a skeletal figure of the same, hateful wraiths that each wielded a pair of cruel elemental cleavers. They stalked forward with their weapons brandished menacingly. The scream of Baal-Kephor’s inferno rifle tore through the air as J’jexxyn leaped forward to meet them, his sword and shield blurs of motion.
Indecision paralyzed Maraduamnaa. She wanted to cast a spell, but what if she ended up summoning more foes? Charging into melee would surely result in her being overwhelmed; she was beyond mortal in many ways, but strength and agility were not among them. She decided to ready her sword and shield and wait, all the while trying to ignore the gibbering at the back of her mind that grew louder, insistent, demanding.
One of the demons of blackened bone and seething flames finally fell to Baal-Kephor’s onslaught of superheated death; another crumpled into an ashen heap beneath J’jexxyn’s blade. The remaining seven closed tighter and tighter around the devil, the demon, and the glayruk. Maraduamnaa’s heart raced; the teeth upon her sword twitched frenetically; she needed to do something. Despite her better judgment, she pointed her sword at one of the demons and willed the power of Ag’graaza to flow through her. It came as an electric sensation, powerful and cathartic, that had her spider legs spasming; it was as though the Primordial Chaos-Void had been waiting for her to call upon it again. Chaos-flame, in all of its scintillating hues, wreathed Maraduamnaa’s sword. She willed it to surge forward and hurl itself at her foe. As the flames obeyed, a new presence manifested in the glayruk’s mind, its voice sibilant and rasping:
How pretty you are, little mortal… You are coming with me.
Before Maraduamnaa could protest, her field of vision distorted into non-shapes, and then everything went black.
* * *
Baal-Kephor felt his familiar telepathic link with Maraduamnaa being suddenly severed; he didn’t hear the clanging of her armor and the thud as she hit bare stone above the din of battle, especially his inferno rifle’s wrathful reports. He wanted to turn all of his attention onto Maraduamnaa, but he couldn’t, not with the demons closing in all around and his shots not nearly as effective as he would have liked. He grimaced; he would have to resort to his war-blade soon. Even J’jexxyn’s ice rays were useless. What kind of demons were these?
Unbidden, a voice that sounded like a cross between a serpent and an insect answered Baal-Kephor’s wordless question:
The best kind. Here, let me help…
A cacophony of screams tore through Baal-Kephor’s mind as he saw at once all of the mortal souls he had condemned to damnation.
And then everything went black; the last thing Baal-Kephor felt was falling atop Maraduamnaa, joining his lover in oblivion.
* * *
In the cavern where stood the silver simulacrum of Zeraga Baal’khal, the runes upon the maul Ik’kthatch glowed brighter than they had in many thousands of years.
The End
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Next Chapter: Raveled Fates/Web of Oubliettes
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