This is the thirteenth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The twelfth chapter, Freedom Flight, 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
Shadows as solid as mountain bedrock constituted the palace of Qeyy’phon Nyxaria, the ephemeral made impregnable. The palace proper was a pharaonic ziggurat, overwhelming both in sheer size and the exquisite assiduousness of the craftsmanship: all around were murals depicting the demonic cat-queen in all her glory; reliefs of creatures trapped in the palace by eldritch means; and flowing, curving patterns. Fluted columns ringed the ziggurat and connected to it by perfectly curved arches spanning between the tops of the columns and the palace’s pinnacle, an ersatz spiderweb limned in hypnotic purple fire.
Qeyy’phon’s throne room commanded an entire section near the top of the ziggurat, nearly large enough to encase a mortal hamlet. A mural of decorations flowed seamlessly between the ceiling, walls, and floor, accented with beckoning flames of purple, blue, and green, all of it twisting and shifting; merging and blurring; rising and falling. The exterior decorations were child’s play by comparison to this phantasmagorial display; no mortal hand, not even that of the most learned wizard, could have come close to crafting a piece of such stygian grandeur.
The throne stood near the back wall and was sloping monolith of indigo flames; coronas of baleful light undulated about it, intensifying the majesty, imperiousness, and sheer wonder of the demon-queen who sat upon it. Though she could assume any form she wanted, she was currently in the guise she favored most while in her palace. It was that of a svelte, voluptuous woman with immaculate ashen skin, and she wore a translucent, low-cut gown of onyx silk. Were it not for her distinctly feline ears; fingers that ended in razor sharp claws; and a sleek, black tail swishing with displeasure, she could have been mistaken for one of the dryzjinn or dark elves that inhabited so many mortal worlds.
Before the demon queen stood two of her servants who, until recently, had been among her most favored. Their names were Arvani and Ko’soth. The former was the assassin who the cat-queen had sent to slay Zeraga and retrieve both his soul and Hellscythe, the vessel of the traitor Apollyon. The latter had been sent to aid a glayruk named Maraduamnaa and, by doing so, claim the only dragon egg from the lost world of Kazanor that hadn’t become one of the dreaded a’aggyri, the Fire-Brides of Pandemonium. Arvani was a well-muscled woman with the lower half of a six-legged panther; Ko’soth was a debonair man clad in a loose-fitting white robe, his ears and lips hosting rows of piercings.
“Both of you have failed me,” Qeyy’phon said with the cold emotionlessness of hard truth. Silence followed as her objurgation choked the air; both of her servants averted their gazes.
Finally, Arvani gulped and dared to raise her eyes. “My queen,” she said, her coming plea for mercy all too clear in the trembling of her voice and the lines of worry upon her face. “My blades have never failed to bring you a soul before. I do not know why they failed this time. I pierced the Doomfire’s throat; he should be dead. If—”
Qeyy’phon’s humorless laugh shoved Arvani’s next words back down her throat. “You are young, Arvani. You’ve barely seen a full millennium. If you were a mortal, such naïveté would be understandable, but it is because of your youth that you have great knowledge of Apollyon the traitor, granted by Ahriman himself at the moment of your birth. As such, you knew that Hellscythe was one of us. You had the chance to reclaim it, and you didn’t. That was why the Doomfire’s soul escaped you.”
“I couldn’t!” Arvani’s voice cracked. “His kuurzanaals were right there, and if—”
Again, Qeyy’phon interrupted her servant. “I have no use for the word ‘if,’ Arvani. ‘If’ is hypothetical. Nonexistent. More than that, cowardice is not becoming of one of my favored assassins. Those kuurzanaals should be dead, just like the Doomfire.”
“Yes, my queen.” Defeated, Arvani dropped her gaze to the floor like a stone in water.
Qeyy’phon’s eyes turned upon Ko’soth. To his credit, he didn’t cower. “Your failing is even greater than Arvani’s. Not only did you fail in bringing the dragon egg of Kazanor back to me, but it is also now permanently lost due to Ik’kthatch being allowed to consume it. Tell me, Ko’soth, why didn’t you do more to aid Maraduamnaa and Baal-Kephor?”
“They did not need my aid,” the other demon replied, “Maraduamnaa had Ik’kthatch bound to her will, and she had studied the magics and lore of our kind for many centuries besides, right under the nose of Satan himself.”
“And yet, she fell to Xu’zurath.” Qeyy’phon’s tail swished faster. “You knew that Xu’zurath guarded the egg; you knew how powerful they were. Why then, Ko’soth, did you not work harder to secure my victory? Are the desires of your queen not as important to you as you have told her they are?”
“They are…” Ko’soth’s voice trailed off as he carefully chose his next words. “I did aid in Maraduamnaa’s ascension to demonhood, and I felt that that would have been enough for her to overcome Xu’zurath.” He paused. “I was wrong.”
Qeyy’phon gave a knowing smile. “That you were, Ko’soth. That you were. However, not all is lost. I have found another way to claim the Doomfire so that he will march at the head of my army.”
“What would you have us do?” Eagerness born from desperation had the words racing from Arvani’s mouth.
Qeyy’phon’s smile widened. “I am so glad you asked,” she purred.
Ko’soth gulped and forced himself to keep his eyes on his queen.
“You see,” Qeyy’phon continued, “since neither of you were able to accomplish the tasks I had set for you by yourselves, I have decided that you two will now work together.” The demon-queen gave a perfunctory sweep of her arm. A globe of thick, red mist as large as Arvani and Ko’soth appeared to the left of Qeyy’phon’s throne, bathing the room in its blood-red light.
From the globe stepped a fourth demon. He was a thin, well-muscled, ash-skinned humanoid with four arms. His legs were cat-like and ended in hairless paws with black claws. A coat of black, fine-mesh chainmail embraced his body with the intimacy of a lover, and each of his four hands gripped a polearm: a bardiche, a glaive, a lucerne hammer, and a ranseur. All of the weapons were made of the same solid shadows and hypnotic flames as Qeyy’phon’s place. An austere expression coated the demon’s angular face, framed by a thick mane of stark white hair.
Arvani’s jaw dropped. “Spiritgorger…”
“Yes.” Qeyy’phon gave another humorless laugh. Like many of her favored champions, Spiritgorger had been a mortal, a dark elf, though he no longer remembered that life; it was more than ten thousand years in the past now. But, he remained true to his purpose. He had sought to devour the souls of others and claim their power as his own in his quest to rule his own little, lightless empire of dark elves and even less valuable slaves. Qeyy’phon had humored, and then humbled, the mighty conqueror with the power he desired. Now, his name was all he was.
With a telepathic command from his queen, Spiritgorger became a blur of motion; Arvani and Ko’soth cried out his weapons effortlessly slid through them, the fire about their heads brightening. And Qeyy’phon Nyxaria watched as her ill-fated servants unraveled and flowed into Spiritgorger’s weapons, leaving not a trace behind.
“You already know what to do,” the demon queen said nonchalantly.
Without any acknowledgement at all, Spiritgorger walked back through the globe of red mist, the memories of his latest victims swirling in his mind.
*
Zeraga’s vision slashed through the pall of darkness all around. Before him sprawled a cavern that spanned for miles, replete with jagged edges and stony copses of stalagmites sprouting from the floor. Clusters of stalactites hung from a perilous ceiling that was more than a mile high. Not far from the Doomfire loomed a cathedral, one that he remembered all too well after slaughtering nine of his sons in front of it. It was of a baroque construction with many fluted columns encasing aberrant gargoyles stacked upon and beside each other like cells in a hive. From the jaw-like ramparts rose spires with roofs of swords. Where there should have been mullioned windows, there were instead maws of raw, dark red flesh and alien teeth, thin and needle-like. The front portcullis was a lattice of bone, its height equaling Zeraga’s and its width measuring the same.
Not far from the eldritch cathedral stood a pair of skeletal, black horses with eyes, manes, hooves, and tails of pulsing, writhing hellfire. Zeraga recognized the kuurzanaals as Churvômbhel and Drahligar; the Doomfire smiled at the sight of them loyally awaiting him. Briskly, he closed the distance.
See? Churvômbhel said. I told you that Lord Zeraga would return. It was a good omen when Hellscythe disappeared after that wretched demon stabbed him.
Perhaps. Drahligar replied. But, we still had time to go back to Arkynathos and inform Skûn of what had happened. We might have received reinforcements then.
And admit that Lord Zeraga, the Doomfire, Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons, failed? Never.
Zeraga laughed, rich, joyful, legitimate. If only I could offer more of a reward for your loyalty than my mere return.
Yes, yes, quite a shame. Hellscythe cut in. Now that the reunion is out of the way, that which we seek is in the cathedral ahead, and the veil between this plane and the Primordial Chaos-Void has thinned further. Don’t forget, also, that the Eternal Darkness will consume you unless we get to that plane in time. I’m sure you get the idea.
We have much to do, yes. Zeraga conceded. Reflexively, he glanced down at the arm holding his black sword of pure energy. The limb’s skin was a darker shade of gray than before, a tinge lighter than the iron cities of Dis, and the veins were as radiantly black as the sword itself. Zeraga took some solace in the fact that the affliction hadn’t yet progressed beyond that arm. There is one more thing I wish to attend to first.
The Doomfire walked over to the corpse of himself; the body’s throat was a gaping maw of gory ruination. Even with the knowledge that four hundred and twenty-seven incarnations of himself had come before, looking upon his dead self invoked a creeping fear within Zeraga. He stood face to face with proof that he had been slain by a demon much less powerful than Ahriman because he had cast aside Hellscythe. And that brought forth another dreadful notion: did he really amount to anything without that baleful, bloodthirsty weapon in his grip? Hellscythe’s, Apollyon’s, power was how Zeraga had survived the assassination attempt; it was how he had survived the Web of Oubliettes. Perishing the thoughts, Zeraga stripped what remained of his armor from his corpse and began to don it.
The breastplate was missing due to having been destroyed during an earlier duel with the demon Nekros Gorethirster, but the rest of the green-trimmed copper armor remained: pauldrons, six vambraces, belt, and boots were present. Zeraga’s half tabard and cloak, both crimson, were present as well. A shudder ran down Zeraga’s spine as each of the cold, metal armor pieces fit his current body as perfectly as they had fit his corpse.
Nearby lay a gem-encrusted iron truncheon crowned by an eight-pointed star of chaos; not far from it was an axe of similar make with a serrated, crescent blade. A savage, horned skull anchored the axe’s blade to its handle, and three spikes the length of sword blades jutted out from behind the axe’s head. Without a second thought, Zeraga took up the truncheon known as Affliction and the axe known as Suffering, which had once been Nekros’s weapons. The Doomfire felt the sorcerous might stirring within the chaos-wrought weapons as he lifted them; they still recognized him as their master. That surprised Zeraga more than seeing that Churvômbhel and Drahligar had waited for him.
A third miracle awaited Zeraga: Maalik’s corpse remained. The idea of casting the spell of reanimation to bring back his companion surged to the forefront of the Doomfire’s mind. But, the roar of hellfire from behind had the devil whirling around and brandishing his weapons. Three muscular, nine-foot-tall, black-scaled gargoyles, as large as Zeraga, stepped forth from a portal that was a miniature inferno. Draconic wings folded over the gargoyles’ shoulders, and their spiraling horns and cloven hooves resembled those of a ram. Onyx-colored adamantine armor bedecked with glowing red runes girded the gargoyles’ monstrous forms. Their wicked glaives were of similar make; hellfire screamed into existence about the blades as they were readied for battle.
Instinctively, Zeraga knew the three devils to be from the Doombringers, a legion that Asmodeus had favored nearly as much as the Crimson Dragons. The gems upon Affliction and Suffering flared with kaleidoscopic radiance as chaos-flame ensorcelled their heads. Zeraga assumed a fighting stance.
“This does not have to end in violence,” the central Doombringer said, “Despite your crimes against Asmodeus, you are still his Everchosen, and he is not unmerciful to those who deserve it.”
“You offer me slavery when I have already won freedom.” A pair of fulminations punctuated Zeraga’s statement; he now wielded a hellfire axe, and more infernal flames wreathed Hellscythe’s blade.
Yes. Hellscythe whispered. Pay them no mind. Only their blood and souls are of any use to us. The weapon sent the crimson pall of the blood-rage skittering across Zeraga’s mind.
“It is a shame that you have chosen death,” the central Doombringer said, “Your past incarnations were mighty champions of Golgotha; your saga will be but a footnote compared to theirs.” In unison, the three Doombringers fired hellfire rays at Zeraga.
Hellscythe and Zeraga’s hellfire axe blurred together as they wove an effulgent barricade that blocked the attacks. The next moment saw the Doomfire charging as Hellscythe intensified the crimson pall and pumped unholy vigor into its wielder’s flesh. Zeraga grew with every stride, becoming larger, scaled, and more draconic. “Slaughter!” he roared.
Slaughter! Hellscythe screamed back.
Zeraga closed the distance, threshing at his foes with his panoply of sorcerously empowered weapons, an undulating wall of metal, fire, and darkness. The trio of Doombringers parried with expert precision, flames hissing as their weapons kissed those of Zeraga before darting back to answer the next strike. As the brutal exchange ended, Zeraga conjured a hellfire shield with his only free hand and snapped his black sword forward, the weapon crackling as it sped toward the throat of the left-most Doombringer. Black, orange, and white sparks burst all around as the gargoyle devil parried with his glaive. The other two lunged and thrust. Snarling, Zeraga beat back one blow with his hellfire sword; more crackling flames and screeching metal followed as Affliction stopped the other Doombringer’s blow.
A cacophony of snarls, screams, gurgles, and other noises somewhere between the three erupted from behind Zeraga and his foes. The Doombringers stepped back as Hellscythe said, Demons.
We will hold back the hordes while you slay Asmodeus’s minions, Lord Zeraga. Churvômbhel said.
Zeraga’s only response was a bestial grunt, telepathically delivered. The devil swept his hellfire axe forward; from the weapon screamed a blazing torrent. Streams of hellfire leaped from the Doombringers’ weapons, expanding into a wall that blocked Zeraga’s attack. Snarling in frustration, the Doomfire charged and rammed his black sword into the hellfire wall. The blade effortlessly slid through, and inky black tendrils slithered from it like a den of vipers unleashed; the glow of the wall dulled. A swing of Suffering followed, shattering the hellfire wall like glass. “Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed.
Immediately, the Doombringers’ glaives darted toward Zeraga’s chest, which was now completely armored in thick crimson scales made lambent by the flames all around. Zeraga caught one of his foes’ glaives with Hellscythe, where that weapon’s blade met its handle, and he blocked another with his hellfire shield. Suffering and Affliction darted forward to meet the third glaive, but it zagged out of the way at the last moment before suddenly zigging forward. The hellfire-wreathed blade wrathfully slammed into Zeraga’s chest, flames slashing across him, but he was left unharmed, his scales still intact. The Doomfire’s mouth twisted into a savage grin.
Another glaive was already surging toward Zeraga’s chest. He parried with his hellfire axe, flames snarling as it collided with the glaive, and he twisted Hellscythe free from the glaive it was locked with, sending the weapon’s blade hurtling back toward its wielder. The black sword pounced upon the Doombringer who had struck Zeraga’s chest. That Doombringer launched his glaive upward in an intercepting strike; a flick of Zeraga’s wrist changed the path of the black sword just enough to evade the glaive. As the stygian blade was about to skewer the Doombringer’s neck, the devil lunged and caught the blow on his helmet. Crimson energy surged from the runes upon the armor piece, encasing both itself and the rest of the Doombringer’s head. Lungless snarls ensued as protective energies repelled the black sword.
The next moment saw a hellfire wreathed glaive slashing across Zeraga’s chest, scoring the crimson scales. Zeraga cannoned Hellscythe forward; the weapon sprayed hellfire as its blade punched through the striking Doombringer’s breastplate and into his flesh. The devil barked in pain as he collapsed, and crimson mist flowed from his soon-lifeless body into Hellscythe, leaving only a husk behind. New vigor flowed into Zeraga; the scoring on his scales faded in the blink of an eye.
The remaining two Doombringers swept their glaives toward Zeraga from opposite directions, an enormous metallic pincer tipped in hellfire. Suffering and Affliction slammed against the glaives while Hellscythe raced forward like a striking viper, sweeping one Doombringer’s head from his shoulders. The fountain of gore spurting from the stump of his neck became crimson mist that flowed into Hellscythe, and a triumphant roar boomed from Zeraga’s mouth as he turned his focus on his last foe. A pall of hellfire enrobed the Doombringer, spiriting him away. Zeraga hissed with disgust as he whipped around.
Churvômbhel and Drahligar were only visible through the protean press of aberrant limbs and bodies because of the flashing of their fiery hooves as they pounded demon after demon into the ground. “Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed as he spread his wings and hurled himself at the denizens of Ag’graaza, volleys of fiery bolts bursting from his weapons. Clouds of ash went up around the Doomfire as he crashed down and laid into his foes, red mist flowing toward him as Hellscythe drank in the demons’ souls. And then, there were no living demons left, only corpses.
Lucidity entered Zeraga’s mind as Hellscythe extinguished the blood-rage. The Doomfire’s scales and spines sank back into his flesh as he shrank to his normal size, and he dismissed his hellfire weapons. He looked down at the arm that held the black sword, seeing that the skin had darkened.
What would you have us do now, lord? Churvômbhel asked.
Fow now, wait. Zeraga replied.
The devil walked back to his own corpse and outstretched a hand toward it. Before he could start casting the spell of reanimation, the corpse started to stir. The eerie sensation of Zeraga’s own blood flowing through it followed, like a phantom heartbeat. Then came feelings of familiarity, coalescing into a fragment of a memory that flashed across his mind.
He stood upon a flat landscape of featureless gray stone with a gray sky and a gray sun overhead, a world that had been drained of all vitality. Around the Doomfire lay the corpses of his sons and daughters. He flexed his hands and called upon his power. One by one, the dead Crimson Dragons started writhing, rising, and morphing, transforming from noble devil warriors into loping beasts with carapaces of red scales, weird ichor oozing from the gaps; spines all around; and savage, hungering visages, the purest carnal manifestations of their father’s blood-rage.
As the memory fragment yielded to reality, Zeraga saw the corpse of himself shriveling as though it had been left out under the red sun that oppressed the surface of Addaduros above. The corpse became perhaps a quarter of its former size, a spindly, emaciated husk that was humanoid in only the vaguest sense. Its muscles were too small for its bones; its six arms were like too-thin tree branches. Its wings were only tangentially bat-like, more resembling scraps of black leather sewn onto its shoulders.
A sense of victory kindled within Zeraga. Though he had been hoping to reanimate his own corpse, bring it back with all the power it had possessed when it had been his body, he had instead discovered a new power from his past life without using a spell at all. The homunculus of himself opened its eyes, bulging orbs of dark crimson, and a serpentine tongue emerged from a mouth filled with tiny, needle-like teeth. A psychic link then formed between Zeraga and the homunculus.
Oh, look at him! Churvômbhel cried, sparks flying as he pounded his hooves on the ground. See, Drahligar? It’s just like the old days!
Yes, yes. the other kuurzanaal replied. Though his voice was monotone, he failed to hide a smile. It was good to again be at the side of the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons.
At the very least, we have another body to throw in the path of the next demon we encounter. Hellscythe said with a sardonic chuckle.
As if in reply to Hellscythe’s words, the homunculus spread its tiny wings and ascended without flapping them. It stopped when it was eye-level with Zeraga, at which point it outstretched its tiny hands toward its creator. Crimson energy streamed from the homunculus into Zeraga’s gray-skinned arm. The limb lightened, and new warmth flowed into it.
Zeraga smiled. It looks like my homunculus is more than a mere body. he said to Hellscythe.
Indeed. the weapon conceded. It had already known that; it remembered well the old days of which Churvômbhel had spoken, knew the memory fragment that had flashed across Zeraga’s mind. But, Hellscythe hadn’t been sure that Zeraga’s current incarnation would retain the power to mold his own flesh. Though it was a natural extension of the blood-rage, it was a power that the four hundred and twenty-seventh incarnation had consciously developed over centuries. Now that Hellscythe had seen Zeraga use the power in this life… The weapon had to hide its glee as it considered the possibilities, especially once Ôx’xâ was finally mounted upon Zeraga’s head.
What else can it do? Zeraga asked, sensing the intensified emotions within Hellscythe.
I cannot say. the weapon replied. Every creation is different, and Asmodeus’s bindings are still upon me. The answer wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. Still, the weapon was, for once, glad for the bindings.
Hellscythe’s answer didn’t satisfy Zeraga, but he knew that he would get no further information out of the weapon. Turning his focus onto Maalik’s corpse, the incantation of reanimation flowed from the Doomfire’s mouth, ropes of necromantic energy bursting from his hands and into the hulking glayruk as he finished. Maalik stirred and then rose, his smoldering orange battle-blade in hand; a psychic link formed between him and Zeraga.
I have returned. Maalik said, his voice hollow.
That you have. Zeraga replied. Our task is not yet done. There are more demons to be slain.
Maalik gave the telepathic equivalent of a nod, at which point Zeraga turned his focus on Churvômbhel and Drahligar. Come. We are entering the cathedral.
Obediently, the horses of shadow and flame trotted over to Zeraga. The devil and his companions then walked toward the cathedral. As they closed the distance, Zeraga went ahead, stopping directly in front of the portcullis of bone and slashing it with his black sword. The stygian blade snarled and crackled as it parted the bone latticework like a hot knife through butter, tiny bits clattering to the ground like dice dropped by a drunk gambler. As Zeraga raised the black sword to swing again, a chorus of shrill screams erupted from on high. An image passed through Zeraga’s psychic link with his homunculus; the mouths upon the cathedral were open wide, strings of saliva hanging from their aberrant teeth, and the gargoyles encased between the fluted columns animated and leaped forth, descending.
Zeraga conjured a pair of hellfire spears as he turned around. One after another, the arms holding the spears snapped forward, sending them hurtling toward the gargoyles. Maalik, Churvômbhel, and Drahligar assumed fighting stances. One of Zeraga’s hellfire spears took a gargoyle at the right shoulder, incinerating its arm; the other spear punched through a clawed foot. The next moment saw a barrage of every-colored wrath bursting from Affliction and Suffering, and more stone rained down as gargoyles crumbled. The thirteen that remained intact landed. Zeraga hefted Hellscythe and stalked toward his closest foe; gleefully, Hellscythe ignited the blood-rage within its wielder.
The next moments passed in a maelstrom of fire and stone and metal as Zeraga and his companions dispatched the gargoyles, leaving behind only formless debris. Lucidity returned to Zeraga as he walked back to the bone portcullis; his black sword became a blur as he cut down the rest of the latticed door. He and his companions then passed through the open portal.
Beyond lay a corridor of eroded stone. On the walls hung ragged tapestries of crimson, black, and copper with accents of other colors. Tiled patterns of the same colors, chipped and weathered with age, decorated the ceiling and floor; most prominent was the red, centered and commanding, forming serpents that seemed never to end.
What are the banners of our legion doing here? Churvômbhel’s swiveled about, settling on each of the banners in turn. I remember all of these battles.
It is as though we have walked into Zehtlkha’an. Drahligar agreed.
But we didn’t. Zeraga replied pointedly. He was still bitter about his last time with Sha, his Fire-Bride, his mate, being nothing more than a dream conjured by demons who had raided his memories. This is a trap. We must be vigilant.
Cynical much? Hellscythe chuckled.
Zeraga didn’t dignify the weapon’s words with a response as he led his companions deeper into the hallway. The threshold through which they had passed disappeared faster than it should have, and a faint, grinding sound could be heard behind. Zeraga surmised that the cathedral, with its partially alive nature, had regenerated the bone portcullis, but he paid the thought no further mind; he could cut through it again if need be.
From ahead came the sound of more grinding, louder than the noise from behind. Zeraga conjured a sword and shield of hellfire, and chaos-flame ensorcelled Suffering and Affliction, seething, snarling, crackling. The radiance of the Doomfire’s weapons banished the darkness ahead, revealing a circular chamber made entirely from bones arranged every which way, all shifting of their own volition. Rotting corpses lay on the floor, their eyes glazed over, their pallid flesh caked with blood. Rats as large as Zeraga’s homunculus feasted on the corpses, their long, yellowed teeth digging like a miner’s pick in search of gold.
Zeraga pointed Affliction at the nearest cluster of rats. From the gem-encrusted truncheon surged a wave of every-colored death. At least, that was what Zeraga had been expecting. The swarm of rats looked up and started chittering, and the wave of chaos-flame transmuted into putrid green mist. Zeraga’s hellfire sword snapped forward; a line of fiery bolts streaked forth. They passed through the mist and slammed into the wall of shifting bones beyond, a cloud of ashes falling afterward. Thick, wet laughter ensued.
“Foolish Doomfire!” called the laughing voice. “You have come into our domain seeking to use our weapons against us!”
The green mist swirled and thickened as the swarm of rats skittered toward Zeraga and his companions. The Doomfire immolated a few with hellfire bolts before they closed the distance, but more had emerged from spontaneously formed gaps in the cavern’s walls. Maalik’s sword sprang into motion, bisecting the overgrown rodents with devastating chops while Churvômbhel and Drahligar pulped their foes with their hooves. Zeraga wielded only Hellscythe and his hellfire weapons; he didn’t trust Affliction and Suffering, and he had no desire to learn what unforeseen consequences the use of his black sword would have. One after another, the demoniac rats died. More replaced the fallen.
From the green mist emerged a demon that towered over Zeraga, barely not scraping the cavern’s ceiling with its curled, black horns that were as mighty as an adamantine weapon. Gray skin bearing a tapestry of scars, pocks, and buboes encased his lean, almost rangy, form, and his six red eyes glistened with malice. The demon’s wings were fleshless, looking like the bony claws of a behemoth.
Sweeping his arms up and outstretching his clawed hands, the demon spoke a guttural, esoteric word. The bone cavern shook, and skeletons stepped forth from the walls, marching toward Zeraga and his companions as still more rats came forth. Though Zeraga wanted to spread his wings and charge the demon, the rats and skeletons so tightly packed the space in front of him that he knew that he would be dragged down, begging to be dismembered. His arms rose and fell in strong, wrathful strokes as he committed himself to fighting through the horde while the demon watched, a smug grin on his face. Zeraga couldn’t wait to slice it off.
*
“You have returned empty-handed,” Asmodeus said, his voice austere.
The Doombringer bowed. “My deepest apologies, lord. The Doomfire proved stronger than anticipated; the other two of my legion who went with me are dead, and we were barely able to wound Zeraga.” The legionnaire then went on to describe the entirety of the encounter, sparing no details, especially concerning the hordes of demons and the strange cathedral with fleshly maws in place of windows.
Once the devil had finished, a moment passed in silence as both Asmodeus and his serpentine tail gazed appraisingly on the gargoyle-like devil clad all in black. Then, Poisonteeth darted up to Asmodeus’s ear as the archdevil pensively stroked his beard.
He tells no lies. Poisonteeth whispered.
Asmodeus nodded. He already knew that the Doombringer wasn’t lying. Lying to an archdevil was punishable by death, often immediately. Still, Asmodeus was glad for Poisonteeth’s corroboration; it meant that the Doombringer wasn’t trying to escape punishment, either.
“Do you think that you would be able to capture Zeraga if I sent six other Doombringers with you?” Asmodeus asked.
The Doombringer shook his head. “No, lord.”
“Nine?”
The Doombringer paused, considering the notion. “The outcome would still remain uncertain, lord.”
Again, he tells no lies. Poisonteeth whispered.
Asmodeus nodded, both to the Doombringer and to Poisonteeth. The archdevil couldn’t blame the Doombringer for his refusal; the current incarnation of Zeraga Baal’khal was more powerful than all others save for his direct predecessor, the four hundred and twenty-seventh. But, Asmodeus knew that it was because of the previous incarnation that the current one was so powerful. In his hopes to attack Giredaanas, the collection of planes ruled by the forces of law, and his need to fight off the attacks of the Mephistophelian League, Asmodeus had petitioned Satan to aid in the creation of the four hundred and twenty-seventh incarnation. That, in turn, meant that a fragment of Satan’s soul had dwelt within that incarnation of Zeraga and would in turn dwell within all future incarnations. Asmodeus hadn’t considered it an issue at the time because he had intended the four hundred and twenty-seventh incarnation to be the last one. With the Crimson Dragons at the Doomfire’s command, no battle should have been unwinnable for him; the final crusade to Ag’graaza should have succeeded. Now, Zeraga was in open rebellion against his creator and could stand against the mightiest warriors of Golgotha.
Should. Would. Could. Those were the three words that had damned Asmodeus to his current predicament; it was an act of will for him not to sigh. “You are dismissed,” he said to the Doombringer.
The Doombringer bowed and egressed from the room. Asmodeus focused on one of his scrying mirrors and cast a spell. Nothing happened. The archdevil then focused on his bond with Hellscythe. It was weak, distant, faint, as though the weapon had left Addaduros again, which was likely the case. That meant that Zeraga had left the fifth Hell, too. For as much as Hellscythe, the traitorous demon Apollyon, had professed to hate being wielded by Zeraga, if Zeraga was rebelling and succeeding, Hellscythe would surely render aid.
“Perhaps we should return to Golgotha so that we can plot our next move?” Poisonteeth suggested, speaking aloud now that the serpent and its master were alone.
Asmodeus didn’t like the idea, but he couldn’t deny that it made sense. With two of his Doombringers slain, every lead on Zeraga lost, and every moment spent on Addaduros an act of war by the laws of the Thirteen Hells, there was little hope for progress. Asmodeus let out the sigh he had been holding. Every other devil on Golgotha envied Zeraga’s position. And yet, Zeraga chose rebellion. Still, Asmodeus could not say that the act was entirely irrational; he himself had rebelled alongside Satan against Xa, the supreme deity of law, the being who had created the multiverse as it was currently known, the being who had defeated Ahriman so that life could exist. Yes, Asmodeus understood why Zeraga had rebelled.
He just didn’t like it.
A burst of hellfire pulled the Lord of Golgotha from his ruminations. Before him appeared a raven-like kuryaazos, its tiny, red-scaled arms and legs shaking as its wings flapped frenetically.
“News, lord,” the creature squeaked.
“Oh?” Asmodeus raised an eyebrow.
“Devils from Chelgorgos. Sanguine Specters. March with Fangs of Azazel into mountain. Find Doomfire with blood scrying. Veil between here and Ag- Ag—” The kuryaazos squawked. “Ag’graaza thin. Very thin.”
“I see. Did you have anything else?”
“No, lord.”
“Very well. You are dismissed.”
The kuryaazos disappeared amid a flash of hellfire.
“Do you think that Hellscythe has something to do with the thinning of the veil?” Poisonteeth asked.
“It would not surprise me,” Asmodeus replied, “but I do not think that Hellscythe alone could cause a disturbance that a half-wit kuryaazos would find worth reporting. I think that it has something to do with that cathedral. I also think that Ôx’xâ is active and that Zeraga is seeking it.”
“I had forgotten about the helmet. You make a good point.”
Asmodeus didn’t reply. Zeraga, and the rest of the Crimson Dragons legion, had tried to hide the creation of the Horned Helmet of Desolation. They had thought that Asmodeus wouldn’t approve of his then-favored legion wielding the power of chaos. Though they hadn’t been entirely wrong, Asmodeus understood that power was power, and power was what made right. More than that, just as the archdevil understood Zeraga’s rebellion, he also understood the allure of chaos. The first devils had come from angels wielding the power of chaos to better fight the demons. The power of chaos, of Ag’graaza, was the reason Asmodeus had Poisonteeth, the only being in all the Thirteen Hells the archdevil could truly trust.
And the news from the kuryaazos only validated Poisonteeth’s suggestion. The best move was to return to Golgotha and then… Asmodeus liked the following possibility even less, but it seemed like his best chance at reclaiming Zeraga. Once Asmodeus had returned to Golgotha and mustered a larger portion of the Doombringers legion, he could return to Azazel and broach the notion of working alongside the Fangs. Like old times.
Except it wouldn’t be. It could never be like the old times again.
Sighing and shaking his head, Asmodeus rose from his clandestine throne in his clandestine fortress.
*
An ersatz door of piled up bones and rotted corpses now sealed off the cavern of bones from the hallway that led into it, and still more were strewn on the ground behind Zeraga and his companions. Now, a corybantic clash ensued between them and the demon at the center of the cavern; claws and blades screeched and rasped against each other as explosions of sorcery chained together all around. All Zeraga saw was red, red, and more red; he was a thrall of the blood-rage in mind and body. “Slaughter!” he screamed as he rained strike after strike upon his demonic foe, not slowing down even though his flesh bled from dozens of cuts and gouges that had perforated his armor and sheered through his crimson scales.
The demon held his ground against Zeraga’s onslaught. Four scythes of bone drawn from the cavern itself floated about the demon’s shoulders, striking, parrying, and riposting as deftly as any living wielder, while the demon swept his claws at Zeraga. The Doomfire beat back the claws with his hellfire shield, at which point a bone scythe darted forward, its edge whistling toward the devil’s throat. Zeraga parried with his hellfire sword. A swing of Hellscythe followed, more flames screaming from the weapon. The bone scythe that darted forward to parry went up in flames and then crumbled to ashes. Still, the demon sidestepped, only to throw his head up and snarl in pain a moment later.
Ropes of blood hung from Maalik’s sword, whipping about like gibbeted bodies as the reanimated glayruk swung again. Two of the demon’s bone scythes snapped toward Maalik, one parrying his strike and the other slashing his chest. The wound would have killed a mortal, but Maalik had ascended beyond that state. He swung again.
Churvômbhel and Drahligar cannoned their fore hooves forward as they breathed hellfire upon the demon. Zeraga cut down a bone scythe with his hellfire sword as he swept Hellscythe toward his foe’s chest. The attacks ravaged the demon; gore poured from his flesh as he fell to his knees, much of it becoming sanguine mist that flowed into Hellscythe.
The weapon sent a fresh wave of vigor coursing through Zeraga, telepathically salivating now that the moment it had been waiting for was so close. Zeraga roared with renewed fury as he lunged and rammed Hellscythe’s blade through the demon’s skull. Bone parted with a wet, sickening crack, and gore sprayed forth, becoming more red mist that nourished Hellscythe. “Slaughter! Slaughter! Slaughter!”
The blood-rage reached its zenith, and the sensation of déjà vu permeated Zeraga. In his mind’s eye, the devil saw himself and a group of six other Crimson Dragons, mighty infernal warriors clad in red, bronze, and gold, bearing inferno rifles and swords of putrid orange feyrferreus. The seven stood upon a landscape of bones with a lightless, black sky overhead; they were in Chelgorgos, the tenth Hell of Nyrrakhâ. Before them lay the supine, motionless form of the demon Zeraga and his companions had slain in the present time. Then, the image unraveled; the bones constituting the cavern fell still; the demon corpse disappeared. The blood-rage was now gone, too, sending cold clarity sweeping through Zeraga’s mind. His gaze swiveled about in search of a way out of the cavern of bones, deeper into the eldritch cathedral.
I do not think that Nurzhar is dead. Drahligar said dourly. We had to kill him twice before binding him to Ôx’xâ, and now that he is bound… The kuurzanaal’s voice trailed off.
Is that what has been causing all of the attacks on Arkynathos? Churvômbhel asked. I had an inkling that Ôx’xâ was the source of such. I remember it being taken to Addaduros during the twilight of our legion, and I had heard rumors that Charaezohar’en had broken free at least once. Hopefully, that does not happen again.
We cannot be so sure until Ôx’xâ is in our hands. Hellscythe’s ruby tip flared with sanguine light. Here is the way forward.
Bones clattered against each other as the cavern’s back wall shifted, yielding to a new opening. Immediately after, a voice that Zeraga recognized all too well cried out. “Zeraga, my love! I am trapped!” The voice of Sha’eryzhura came from directly beneath Zeraga’s feet; his gaze snapped to the ground.
Sha couldn’t be alive. The voice that was so clearly hers couldn’t be real. But, it would be so easy to find out. Zeraga’s hellfire sword growled and brightened, as if begging. Sha couldn’t be alive, Zeraga repeated to himself. His throat went dry, and a chunk of lead formed in his gut. Despite himself, he wondered if fate had twisted in her favor. Fire-Brides were not immortal, but they were so long-lived that they might as well have been; the five thousand years between the death of the four hundred and twenty-seventh incarnation and the awakening of the current one were like drops in a rainstorm. Zeraga gulped, daring to hope.
Don’t do it, Zeraga. Hellscythe said. You already know where this path leads. Need I remind you again of what we are seeking?
Before Zeraga could reply, he felt a memory bubble up from the psychic abyss that was the memories of his past lives. And then, it stopped; Zeraga’s bond with his homunculus strengthened. With the strengthening came an aura of questioning: did Zeraga really want to relive this memory?
“Zeraga, my love, please!” Sha was more tormented than before; her voice tugged at Zeraga’s heartstrings, a reminder that he had already lost her once.
The devil gave the homunculus a wordless answer to its wordless question, rejecting the memory. In that instant, Zeraga plunged his black sword into the floor and started carving a circle. Snarling energy shredded the air as the corpses on the floor and the bones beneath were disintegrated. Churvômbhel and Drahligar stood and watched. Both kuurzanaals had seen the legendary wrath of Sha’eryzhura in full force, and they knew well that their lord’s love for the Fire-Bride was just as intense. They dared not stop him. Maalik brandished his sword and assumed a defensive stance.
And Hellscythe fumed. It wanted nothing more than to kill that damn homunculus, that shriveled, pathetic mockery of Zeraga. It hadn’t aided in the fighting, hadn’t killed even a single rat. Still, it had proven itself useful to Zeraga, and so he would be loathe to part with it. That, of course, would make it that much harder for Hellscythe to execute its plan; the homunculus provided another source of psychic strength for Zeraga to draw on. And yet, the devil still couldn’t see that Sha’s voice was nothing more than a trap laid by the demons within the cathedral, the demons of Ôx’xâ. Again, Hellscythe did not wonder why Zeraga had been through so many incarnations.
The devil finished carving the hole in the floor. Then, he spread his wings and hovered over it, telepathically telling Churvômbhel and the homunculus to follow him while Drahligar and Maalik stood watch within the cavern. Below, the Doomfire, his chosen kuurzanaal, and his homunculus entered a cavern of reddish-brown, unworked stone ordinarily not out of place in Addaduros’s landscape. At the center of the cavern lay a pool of bright, green liquid. Within bobbed the body of Nurzhar, bearing no wounds from the recent battle. Around the pool stood seven trees with distinctly humanoid appearances and leafless crowns. From their midsections sprouted torsos of flesh and blood, pointed ears and platinum hair framing their tormented faces. A few feet away from the northern edge of the pool stood an iron cage. Within, a shrouded figure called, “Zeraga, my Doomfire!”
The words invoked rage within Zeraga; he could see immediately that the silhouette within the cage did not match that of Sha’eryzhura. Charging the corrupted dryads, Zeraga unleashed a torrent of flames from his hellfire sword. Radiant plumes sprouted from the nearest dryad, the creature screeching as it was immolated, soon nothing more than ashes. Zeraga closed the distance a moment later. “Slaughter!” Hellscythe became a blur of gold, bronze, and red as infernal flames ensorcelled its blade; another dryad died. The remaining five stomped toward Zeraga, and their gnarled arms sprouted thorns.
Churvômbhel kept to Zeraga’s left and breathed a gout of hellfire on one of the dryads while Zeraga felled another with his hellfire sword; both the devil and the kuurzanaal easily evaded their foes’ clumsy, uncoordinated blows. The homunculus hovered near the back of the cavern.
The remaining corrupted dryads were slain a few moments later, their bodies reduced to ashes. Zeraga walked over to the cage. Within stood a woman draped in robes that shimmered between onyx and purple. Her countenance was haunting and ethereal, almost ghostly. Her deep green eyes were limned in silver, and long, straight horns sprouted from her forehead.
“Impostor,” Zeraga growled, flexing his grip on Hellscythe.
I told you. the weapon said.
“Please,” the fey woman replied, “forgive my deception, I—”
“Why?” Zeraga interrupted. All he saw before him now was another reminder that Sha’eryzhura was gone. Chaos-flame erupted to life about Suffering and Affliction.
“I beg of you, Zeraga Baal’khal, Doomfire, let me explain. My name is Nightshade. I have been trapped here for nearly a millennium. Those dryads you put out of their misery were once my brothers and sisters, now lost to the corrupting influence of Ôx’xâ, that which they came seeking. Many others have come seeking the Horned Helmet since, and each time I called to them as I did you. Each time, the seekers failed.”
“You lured them to their deaths,” Zeraga said flatly.
Nightshade glowered. “I did no such thing. Most of the seekers were shortsighted mortals, doomed from the moment they set foot in this wretched cathedral. You should know that better than anyone. It was you and your children who created the Horned Helmet of Desolation. You are responsible for all of this.”
“Then it is good that I have come to reclaim that which is mine.” Zeraga’s mouth twisted into a wicked grin. “Still, it is bold of you to level such accusations against me after begging for me to free you. You must not value your freedom very much, do you? After all, if you were capable of freeing yourself, you surely would have done so by now.”
“I can help you end this.” Nightshade’s face softened. “Free me, and I can help you destroy Ôx’xâ.”
Wrath, goaded by Hellscythe, flashed through Zeraga. “As I have said, Ôx’xâ is mine. Why would I want to destroy it?”
“And continue the cycle of slaughter and death that defines your existence? There is not a plane in the multiverse that does not know of you, Zeraga Baal’khal, and you are known as a heartless butcher and a tool of Asmodeus. You are known as a blight upon existence.”
Zeraga gave a hollow laugh. “You’re not helping your case, you know.” He flexed his grip on Hellscythe again.
You have given her more attention than she deserves, especially after such insults. the weapon said. Let us kill her and be done with it.
If I may be so bold, Churvômbhel added, I agree with Hellscythe, my lord. Every moment we delay is another moment the demons have to lay siege to Arkynathos and increase the risk to Lord Zamyyr’s life.
I know, Zeraga replied, but this fey may yet prove useful.
“I can only hope that my next words reach you, Zeraga,” Nightshade said, a melancholy smile on her face. “Free me, and we can destroy Ôx’xâ together. Afterward, we can go to my home plane of Arcadia where you can leave all of this behind. I will plead your case before Queen Caylyantha, and she will ensure that Asmodeus will never find you again. You can leave this torment behind, once and for all.”
An ember of idealism smoldered within Zeraga. How liberating, how halcyon, it would be to give up his struggle and live out the rest of his immortal days peacefully. Though he could not say whether it was a glamour in Nightshade’s words or a manifestation of his own desires and forgotten memories, visions of verdant forests, dancing satyrs and pixies, and bacchanalian feasts flowed through the devil’s mind like a babbling brook. It was a life that could be his if he allowed it to be.
Zeraga banished the idyllic mindscape with cold truth, a hammer crashing down upon an anvil. If he ran, Asmodeus would find him. It might take months. It might take centuries. But, Zeraga knew that he would be found; he felt it in the sinews of his flesh, and the appearance of Asmodeus’s Doombringers had proven it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Again, Zeraga gave a hollow laugh, and then he turned around. “Come, Churvômbhel. Let us continue what we came to do.”
“Gladly, Lord Zeraga,” the horse of shadow and fire replied.
“Please, Zeraga,” Nightshade pleaded, “I can help you.”
The Doomfire turned back around toward the fey woman. With a slight push from Hellscythe, Zeraga’s animosity for Nightshade grew; his mouth twisted into a sadistic grin. “You’re right. You can.” Red ringed Zeraga’s vision as he surged forward; the next moment saw Hellscythe cannoning forward and punching through Nightshade’s chest, gore jetting from her as she screamed in excruciation.
The gore became crimson mist. Nightshade’s corpse became a shriveled husk. Zeraga Baal’khal became stronger. Tearing Hellscythe free, Zeraga then spread his wings and ascended back through the hole he had carved, followed by Churvômbhel and the homunculus.
You saw what happened? Churvômbhel asked Drahligar as he and Zeraga landed.
Drahligar gave the telepathic equivalent of a nod; he had seen everything through his psychic link with the other kuurzanaal.
The next moment saw Zeraga and his companions exiting the cavern of bones and delving deeper into the cathedral.
Closer to Ôx’xâ.
*
With his fiery gaze, Charaezohar’en watched as Nurzhar manifested within the hall of smoldering adamantine that was the inside of Ôx’xâ, the Horned Helmet of Desolation.
“The Doomfire has passed through the Vestibule of Bones,” Charaezohar’en said knowingly. He was the mightiest of the nine demons within Ôx’xâ, a horned behemoth of rippling muscle and black scales, swollen with the vigor of the Primordial Chaos-Void. He had created the cathedral with his ever-expanding influence; there was not a thing transpiring within it that he did not know about.
“Indeed, Charaezohar’en,” Nurzhar replied. The gray-skinned, rot-scarred demon bowed, not out of any real sense of loyalty, but rather to placate the master of their prison. “Nightshade is also dead.”
“Yes, I watched the Doomfire slay her. However, there is another invader, a demon of shadows and memories who has been stalking Zeraga.”
“There is? Shall I set myself to destroying him?”
“No.” Charaezohar’en shook his head. “This new demon may very well do our work for us. See to it that he and Zeraga, along with Zeraga’s companions, enter the arena. Our enemies will fall, and then we shall use their souls to break the last of our bindings.”
“And the traitor Apollyon will be delivered to Ahriman.”
Charaezohar’en’s mouth twisted into a burning grin. “Just so. Go now, Nurzhar, and do as I have said. I shall inform the other seven. I am sure Nekros will be quite pleased.”
Nurzhar nodded and teleported away, leaving Charaezohar’en alone. He didn’t stop grinning. What Nurzhar didn’t know, what none of the others knew, was that Charaezohar’en had already arranged to use their souls in sundering the bindings, too, and then absorb what was left into himself. None of them would survive, nor would they learn the truth until it was too late. That, in turn, would leave Charaezohar’en the second-most powerful demon in the multiverse, surpassed only by Ahriman himself. Charaezohar’en’s grin widened. He liked that idea very, very much.
The End
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Next Chapter: Cathedral of the Horned Helmet Part II
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