This is the nineteenth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The eighteenth chapter, The Cybele Campaign, Part II, 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
“After the Chained Isles were ‘cleansed,’ as our Legion Master put it,” Irzaval continued, “the time came to bring down the wall of light that partitioned that remote region of Cybele from the rest of the world. To his credit, Siege-Master Obzhorvyx argued passionately for the plan of teleporting in the mightiest of the Crimson Dragons’ war engines to bring all of our inferno weaponry to bear against the wall, knowing that even the Eternal Light of Jiyaanu must buckle when put against the power of hellfire taken to super-heated heights.
“And Zeraga refused. He had already taken measures to ensure that Asmodeus would not see the Baalkhalizar or the world of Cybele below, and a teleportation of the scale that Obzhorvyx was suggesting would surely shatter the concealing enchantments that the Lord of Golgotha was already trying to break. Zeraga instead chose to do what, until that moment, we had hoped would have been unthinkable.
“He had every new legionnaire, those who finished their rebirth in the sarcophagi of the Hall of Emergence not even a month earlier, made into autarchs.”
Many of the spectators gasped in horror at the dark revelation.
Irzaval sighed and shook his head. “Yes. Every last one of the Doomfire’s newborn children was sacrificed to feed the unquenchable fires of Asmodeus’s ambition, an ambition that we still had no inkling of. It was with the combined might of those thirty-five autarchs that the wall of light was shattered for all time, never to be reformed. And those thirty-five Crimson Dragons were erased from existence, not even able to live on as damned souls in the Thirteen Hells, for the investiture of transformation and the amount of unleashed energy had taken everything from them.
“Shortly afterward came the fall of the human kingdom of Aurdovia, which had stood in harmony with the dwarven clans of Gralkomnar and the astranaari nation of Thassai-Xyr for as long as history was recorded on Cybele, for they were united by the powers of Heaven and mutual responsibility to one another in protection of that which Asmodeus sought, that which we learned of far too late: the Xoriad. It was the well of astranaari souls that was a link to the Eternal Light of Jiyaanu, by which one could not only channel the power of the Eternal Light but travel to that plane as well. The Xoriad was created by the angels during the first moments of Cybele’s existence and was the heart of the world and its people in every sense of the word. To control the Xoriad was to totally control Cybele. This alone would have been enough to draw any archdevil, and so I cannot fault Asmodeus for his coveting of the Xoriad, at least in that regard. However, Asmodeus also coveted the astranaari souls within the Xoriad and that link to the Eternal Light of Jiyaanu for a dark design not known even now, five thousand years later.
“It was to preserve the Xoriad, Cybele, and his kingdom, and to protect the multiverse in ways that would never be known to him, that Godric Sunshield, the last king of Aurdovia, faced Zeraga in single combat…”
*
The children of Zeraga Baal’khal were a great red noose around Aurdovia, constricting the kingdom and razing its buildings with blade, gun, and flame until they had come to the last bastion of Cybele’s humans: Sellenor, their capital, which had stood since the founding of Aurdovia. It was before this city that Zeraga hovered, clad in his panoply of war and mounted upon Sha’eryzhura, who had shapeshifted into the natural form of the dreaded a’aggyri: an enormous, red-scaled dragon with fangs and claws like swords and eyes of raging hellfire, darkening Sellenor in her shadow. Below were deployed three battalions of Crimson Dragons and a great horde of the myrzor, those soulless, expendable soldiers wrought from the flesh and blood of Zeraga.
Walls of enormous, stone bricks, weathered from age but refusing to yield to the inexorable march of time, were a carapace protecting Sellenor’s inner workings, and legions of human soldiers were arrayed upon the crenellations, their bows, crossbows, catapults, and ballistae trained upon the invaders. Zeraga relished their fear, visible on their faces and thickening the air. These men and women, fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, knew that they were going to die, and they knew that there was nothing they could do to stop that; how could they? How could they stand before one of the dreaded Fire-Brides of Pandemonium, perhaps the mightiest race of wyrms the multiverse had ever known, saying nothing of the infernal legion that would support her every action?
The defenders of Sellenor could not hold, and they had not successfully deceived themselves into believing that it was better to die fighting than to wait for the end to come. They knew the truth. Everyone in the city knew the truth. The only reason that they were still alive was because Zeraga had not yet ordered his legion to attack.
I think that we have allowed them to stew long enough, my Queen. Zeraga said. Perhaps we should show them a little mercy. What say you?
My flames will indeed be a mercy to them, for they will die quickly and cleanly that way. Sha’eryzhura replied, her smooth voice having a savage, predatory undertone. The same cannot be said for those who will have the misfortune of being found by your children.
Yes, as usual, you are right. Zeraga barked a laugh. Let’s get on with it, then.
Sha’eryzhura took a deep breath, the air itself murmuring as it yielded to her, and Zeraga felt the heat intensifying, thickening, within her core, not just as a physical sensation but also as the synchronicity of body, mind, and spirit that had bonded the a’aggyri and her rider after millennia of fighting together. The Fire-Bride exhaled. Zeraga lurched forward as he felt a frisson of excitement, his anticipation of the coming annihilation reaching a zenith, and Sha’eryzhura’s flames flowed forth, a monumental tide of them, rivaling the titanic waves that forever churned Cania, the oceanic seventh Hell of Nyrrakhâ. Roaring, seething, snarling, the hellfire crashed down upon Sellenor, drowning out the agonized death-cries of the people atop the walls as plume after thick, dark plume of smoke rose, heavy with the smells of burnt earth and charred flesh. Eagerly, the flames devoured the walls and surged toward the city within. The myrzor charged into the firestorm, followed by the Crimson Dragons, howling their battle cries.
Zeraga rose. I’m going to attend to Aurdovia’s king personally.
Don’t have too much fun, beloved. Sha’eryzhura replied.
Zeraga’s only reply was a bestial chuckle before he spread his wings and hurled himself from Sha’eryzhura’s back. With a powerful beat of his wings, like the sharp crack of a whip, the Doomfire then rose. “Slaughter!” he screamed.
Slaughter! Hellscythe cast the crimson pall of the blood-rage upon Zeraga’s mind and infused his body with its unholy might, catalyzing his transformation. Needing no prompting, Ôx’xâ, the Horned Helmet of Desolation, added its own might to the demoniac metamorphosis as well.
With another crack of his wings, Zeraga was descending, his clawed feet crashing into the ground a few moments later. He towered over everyone else and saw the world as a mirage of blood, flames, and shadows, the amalgamated wills of Hellscythe and Ôx’xâ. Three Aurdovian soldiers, having nothing left to lose and everything to gain by facing Zeraga, brandished their swords and axes and charged. The Doomfire slew them with a single cleave of Hellscythe, gore spraying as their bodies were ripped open, streams of crimson mist flowing into Hellscythe. Roaring with bloodlust, Zeraga stalked forward. The harvest had only just begun.
*
Not so long ago, King Godric Sunshield’s throne room had been the crown jewel of Aurdovia. It was ensconced within the upper reaches of the senescent castle at the center of Sellenor where exquisite, vibrantly colored panels of stained glass tinted and diffracted the sunlight in an enchanting way, bringing an empyrean sense of ease to all who entered, especially during the morning. Emerald green carpets embroidered with ostentatious knotwork of golden thread spanned the central stretch of floor, going from the mighty double doors, wrought from oak that had been ancient when Aurdovia was young, to the throne upon which all of Aurdovia’s kings and queens had sat, tens of thousands of them, their line uninterrupted. The throne was a monolithic diamond carved to be perfectly smooth, with every angle being a perfect ninety degrees; and the throne was also adorned with complex but repeating patterns of gold and gem. Named Aur-Kavad, the throne had been crafted during the founding of Aurdovia by the angels of Heaven who had brought the astranaari, humans, and dwarves to Cybele from many other worlds throughout the multiverse where the forces of law reigned, that these mortals might protect Cybele for all time. It was also by the powers of law that Aurdovia had endured for so long, not succumbing to the scheming or infighting or other malevolent politicking that routinely devoured so many other mortal kingdoms, for every Aurdovian soul was born with the innate sense of purpose to aid each other, and the dwarves and astranaari, in attaining and maintaining the highest good for all Cybele, just as the other races were also born with similar, perhaps eerily so, senses. This highest, unspoken law ruled Cybele and the happenings upon it more thoroughly than any other.
It was for this reason, that dedication to Cybele and all that it represented, that King Godric Sunshield, now the last king of Aurdovia, remained seated upon this throne as Zeraga Baal’khal, engorged with unholy might, incinerated the oak double doors as though they were merely parchment and stalked into the throne room, shredding the priceless carpets with every step and dulling the luster of the stained glass with his very presence. Beneath Ôx’xâ, his face was a mask of grim delight, and with a single, effortless movement, he cast a pair of mutilated, withered corpses, a woman and a child, before Godric. “Look familiar?” Zeraga snarled, his voice sounding like crackling flames.
“You monster!” Godric roared, rising from his throne. “I’ll have your head for this!”
Brandishing his battle-blade in both hands, the last king of Aurdovia charged toward his doom as so many of his people already had. Zeraga waited for Godric to close the distance. The king swung his sword; Zeraga blocked with the Shield of Twin Dragons; Hellscythe then descended, metal screeching as Godric’s armor yielded to the infernal weapon, and a sickening crack followed as Godric’s skull was split open, blood and brain matter flowing out.
Thus did Godric Sunshield’s soul join those of his wife and son within Hellscythe, further fueling the juggernaut known as Zeraga Baal’khal.
And then, just as he had in Pyrasaav’rí’s throne room, Zeraga cleansed the pointless monuments to mortal decadence and arrogance with baleful flames that were the purest manifestation of his wrath.
*
“Once Aurdovia had joined Azdorma’ar in death,” Irzaval said, “our legion came next for Gralkomnar, the nation of the dwarven clans that were ruled by their demigod who could trace his lineage back to Heaven and was present during the creation of Cybele. That conquest took longer than that of Aurdovia on account of the nomadic nature of the dwarven clans and their intimate relationship with their primordial forests, but in the end, Zeraga slew the dwarven demigod and reaped his soul; and Gralkomnar suffered the same doom as Azdorma’ar and Aurdovia. That left only the astranaari kingdom of Thassai-Xyr, which guarded the Xoriad…”
*
Zeraga took a sip from his jeweled goblet. The wine was hot and bitter as it ran down his throat, doing nothing to revive him. At least, not in the way he needed it to. The Doomfire sat upon a throne crafted from bones taken from Chelgorgos, the tenth Hell of Nyrrakhâ, within the iron fortress that was the heart of the Crimson Dragons’ current base of operations on Cybele, deep within the borders of Thassai-Xyr. A year and a half had passed since the fall of Gralkomnar, and since then, every inch of ground the Crimson Dragoons had managed to take had been paved in broken bones and spilled blood. After how easily the rest of Cybele’s kingdoms had crumpled before the might of Zeraga’s children, the best fighting force in all Golgotha, Zeraga had assumed that Thassai-Xyr would fall just as easily.
He had been wrong.
From the start, the Crimson Dragons had faced phalanxes of gold-and-skull clad warriors wielding the devastatingly radiant sorceries of the Eternal Light of Jiyaanu and further aided by automatons possessed by elementals that matched the war engines of the Crimson Dragons blow for blow. Even with thousands of the expendable myrzor in the first wave of every battle, for the fleshcraft soldiers could be constructed swiftly and easily within the Crimson Dragons’ base, thousands of Zeraga’s children had died, putting the legion at its weakest point ever. And still, there was no end in sight to the Cybele Campaign.
Zeraga sipped from his goblet, and his gaze settled reluctantly upon Ôx’xâ. The Horned Helmet of Desolation sat upon an ornate, stone pedestal but a few feet away from the Doomfire’s throne, encased in a field of crimson energy to keep Charaezohar’en, or any of the other demons, from breaking out. It also kept the demons from whispering to Zeraga, trying to tempt him into donning it; even Hellscythe was rarely so assertive, though Zeraga could also feel that weapon’s presence in his mind, embers waiting to ignite. Still, the Doomfire was as close to tranquility as he was going to get, and he enjoyed it in a morose way. He drained his goblet.
As he set it down, Sha’eryzhura entered the room, clad in one of her ostentatious and flattering gowns of red silk rather than her war-plate.
“Brooding all by yourself again, beloved?” the Queen of the Crimson Dragons asked by way of greeting, good humor lightening her voice.
“This world should already be ours,” Zeraga replied laconically.
“We are doing everything we can, and we are still winning our battles. Progress is being made; we are almost at the astranaari capital.” Sha’eryzhura strode closer to Zeraga. “We will win.”
“Not soon enough,” the Doomfire grunted.
“You tire of this war, my love, and I do not blame you.” Sha’eryzhura closed the distance to Zeraga and laid a gentle hand upon his arm. “I tire of this war. Your children also tire of this war, and if any among us have a right to be tired, to be sickened, to be grieving, it is them. For the past eighteen months, they have watched their brothers and sisters be killed by spell and blade, saying nothing of how many have been sacrificed to create autarchs. Even Obzhorvyx, who was reborn in the Blood Forge of Dis, mourns the dead. I have spoken with him. And now, seeing you like this…” The Queen of the Crimson Dragons sighed. “Why are we still on Cybele, Zeraga? We could all board the Baalkhalizar right now, and Asmodeus would be none the wiser; the spells you ordered the Bloodkeepers to weave have seen to that.”
Zeraga gave a long, thin smile devoid of mirth. “And where would we go? We could not return to Zehtlkha’an; Asmodeus would be waiting for us there, assuming he doesn’t raze the Onyx Bastion out of sheer rage; and with that, our means of replenishing our numbers would be gone. The Crimson Dragons would be doomed to extinction.”
“So what that we would not have access to the sarcophagi? We are immortal, Zeraga. So long as we do not hurl ourselves into pointless conflicts, we would not have to concern ourselves with the possibility of extinction. We could go to the plane of Narvarok, known for its many cities, and build one for ourselves as so many other exiles have done.”
“And then we would be hunted by Asmodeus for all eternity. He will not let us, let me, slip from his grasp so easily.”
“So it is better that we continue to fight his war even though you have rebelled against him already?”
Zeraga tried to mask his austere expression with a veneer of pensiveness. “Asmodeus and I have our differences in opinion on how to prosecute this campaign. I did not view the Azdorma’ari as necessary, and he did, though I must admit that with all of the trouble we are having in conquering Thassai-Xyr, I cannot help but wonder if there was some knowledge that the Azdorma’ari possessed that could have helped us but is now forever beyond our grasp.” The veneer fell away; Zeraga’s expression darkened. Had his contempt for the Azdorma’ari played a role in the deaths of all those Crimson Dragons who had died in the war against Thassai-Xyr? A chunk of lead formed in the Doomfire’s gut.
“You regret that we chose not to rely on mortals, which has ever been our way, because this campaign is proving more difficult than others, and you refuse the opportunity for freedom that is right in front of you?” Sha’eryzhura sighed and shook her head. “My love, you are your own worst enemy.”
A frisson of tension snapped through Zeraga’s body. In an elongated, pneumatic movement, the devil turned his eyes to meet those of Sha’eryzhura. “I am my own worst enemy?” He forced a hollow laugh. “That may be so. I know well that I am Asmodeus’s slave, and still I fight for him because the power granted to me by Hellscythe and by Ôx’xâ allows me to find euphoria and tranquility… a sense of being whole… in the midst of the slaughter, but even then, I must fight with every fiber of my being to ensure that I am not consumed by that very power. I fight for an archdevil purportedly aligned with the forces of law who uses the might of chaos, and I have a legion of children who gleefully follow me into the tragedies wrought by the paradoxes of my existence. Even this is intoxicating in its own repulsive way, knowing that I have so much power over so many lives, to know that thousands of devils all across the Thirteen Hells would give anything, everything, to take part in this cosmic travesty at which I am the center, always at the center, for the Doomfire dies but descends back into dreaming and therefore does not die.”
“Self-pity is unbecoming of a warlord and sorcerer of your stature, Zeraga.” Sha’eryzhura narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “You are only at the center of this ‘cosmic travesty,’ as you call it, because you choose to be, and you do your children a great injustice by continuing upon this path. Asmodeus, time and time again, has proven himself unworthy of us. Unworthy of you. How many centuries have we spent fighting against the forces of the Mephistophelian League on the Forsaken Slaughterfields of Tartarus only to find that no ground was gained, and no objective was achieved, only that we held them off for a little longer? Or shall I speak of the campaign on the Frozen Dirges of Uzaadyn, which claimed the life of blessed Dursaav, where we were forced to ally with the Children of the Maw in yet another war against the Lords of the Reaping Shadow? Have you forgotten how both the legion of Beelzebub, our ally, and the legion of Bhaaz, our enemy, enacted necromantic rites to use our fallen as corpse puppets? Or shall I instead recall all of our battles against Mephistopheles upon the Eternal Conflagration of Yrvoraak, where we fought against the archdevil who created hellfire upon the plane that is the source of all fire in the multiverse? Those were pyrrhic victories, and we spent millennia replenishing our numbers because of them. Thousands of years of grief and sorrow. And still, you would put us through that again. What is it going to take for you to finally stop this insanity, Zeraga? To want to stop it?”
Zeraga’s voice dropped to a deathly whisper. “You need not recount any of those campaigns to me. I was at the front of all of them, as were you, but what you don’t understand—”
“What don’t I understand?” Sha’eryzhura snapped, glaring at Zeraga as she withdrew her hand from his arm. “That you are too in love with your own self-pity and self-loathing to make things better? That you live to be fueled by demonic rage like some drug-addled mortal because you don’t think you have anything left? You cannot tell me that you needed that wretched Horned Helmet—” The Queen of the Crimson Dragons pointed an accusing finger at Ôx’xâ. “—to slay the depraved bitch-creature who sat upon the throne of Azdorma’ar along with the rest of her depraved court, yet you still called for it. You plunged headfirst into the depths of a carnage-filled debauchery all your own just as you have done for millennia. I do not blame you for killing the Azdorma’ari. They deserved to die, and I hope that their souls are in Golgotha, writhing in anguish. But after calling upon Ôx’xâ so needlessly, can you truly say that you are better than them?”
“You posit that the Doomfire is lesser than a civilization of mortal scum who were given everything they needed to free themselves but didn’t? If they had used their sorceries to destroy the wall of light and start the conquest of Cybele themselves, we may not have even had to come to this world. If nothing else, Thassai-Xyr would have fallen by now.” Zeraga’s throat went dry at that final admission.
Sha’eryzhura stepped back. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
“Yes.” Zeraga’s arms tensed as he kept himself from rising. “The Azdorma’ari were capable of freeing themselves. I am not. If that makes me lesser than them, then so be it.”
“Zeraga…” Sha’eryzhura’s voice thickened with sorrow as it trailed off. “You can free yourself. You can free all of us. That is what I have been trying to say this whole time. If you believe that you cannot free yourself so long as Asmodeus is alive, then why don’t we take our legion and go to Pandemonium? Satan will not refuse our presence in the thirteenth Hell, and Asmodeus will not be able to strike at us because open war between the archdevils is forbidden within Nyrrakhâ’s boundaries.
“And then I will be trading one master for another,” Zeraga replied mordantly.
“Satan’s yoke would be lighter than Asmodeus’s.”
“But still a yoke, just the same. Besides, if I die, I will merely be reincarnated to serve Asmodeus again, and I will not delude myself into believing that Satan will not use that to control me in the same way that Asmodeus does now.” Bitterness turned Zeraga’s next words acidic. “Or had you forgotten that fact of my existence, great Fire-Bride of Pandemonium, mighty a’aggyri to whom even the archdevils pay homage? Every time we have had this conversation, I have told you this. And now, I already know what you are going to say next. You are going to tell me that there has to be a way.”
“And that taking the legion away from this place is the start of that way,” Sha’eryzhura continued. She paused as her eyes filled with tears. They started streaming down her face. “But, it doesn’t matter what I say. You will not listen. You do not care.”
The accusations struck Zeraga like a sledgehammer, creating a hollowness in his chest. He opened his mouth to refute his beloved’s claims, but no words came out.
Sha’eryzhura’s eyes said it all. She wished that Zeraga had spoken but wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t. “I am returning to Zehtlkha’an,” she whispered.
And again, Zeraga was silent. The Queen of the Crimson Dragons turned around and left. She didn’t look back, and the closing of the door was like the peal of a funeral bell.
Zeraga spent the next moments scowling. At the door. At Sha’eryzhura. At himself. Then, he turned his gaze upon his empty goblet, refilled it with the apathetic utterance of an arcane word, and took a draught.
The war against Thassai-Xyr would be much harder without Sha’eryzhura. Even more Crimson Dragons would die. And what was Zeraga supposed to tell his children about their queen’s absence? That she had forsaken them because they were fighting a war that she was tired of, the war that all of them were tired of? “Why?” they would ask. And Zeraga would have nothing to tell them, save that the a'aggyri were allowed to do as they wished.
It was a freedom that invoked envy within Zeraga. The a’aggyri were allowed to do as they wished, but Zeraga Baal’khal, the Doomfire, Everchosen of Asmodeus, Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons, was not. He drank from his goblet again, trying to focus solely on the taste of the wine, a subtly crafted vintage, far beyond what even the richest mortal emperors would have the pleasure of experiencing. And yet, in that moment, the wine might as well have been ashes upon Zeraga’s tongue.
Was this how the Crimson Dragons were to fall? After sixty thousand years of crusading and conquering for Asmodeus, was the mightiest legion Golgotha had ever known now doomed to be crushed by mere mortals because its queen wanted to change the unchangeable? Zeraga’s scowl hardened into a grimace. No. His gaze turned to Ôx’xâ. The black adamantine helmet reflected and bent the light of the crimson energy encasing it in an eerily contrived way; and the pulsing of the ever-burning star of chaos etched upon it had taken on a slithering, alluring rhythm, though Zeraga knew well that the Horned Helmet of Desolation wasn’t trying to tempt him, not this time. Charaezohar’en and the other eight demons caged within Ôx’xâ had heard every word exchanged between Zeraga and his lover, and so they knew that the Doomfire would have to don the Horned Helmet again sooner rather than later because he would do whatever it took to preserve the Crimson Dragons. The cosmic travesty of the Doomfire’s paradoxes would continue because it had to.
As if on cue, hellfire flashed in front of the door, and a kuryaazos appeared. The tiny, raven-like creature with red-scaled, lizard-like limbs flew toward Zeraga. “Ob… Obzhor… Obzhorvyx!” the tiny creature squawked, “Third para… parallel! Enemies!”
“Inform Siege-Master Obzhorvyx that I will attend him shortly,” Zeraga replied, his voice cold and authoritarian.
Hellfire flashed, enveloping the kuryaazos, and then the messenger was gone, leaving behind a small cloud of dark smoke that lingered in front of the Doomfire while a grim smile crept upon his face. That Obzhorvyx was calling for him from the third parallel, the outskirts of the Crimson Dragons’ base, meant that something dire was either about to start or already happening.
Zeraga rose from his throne, stiltedly, lethargically, like a marionette being pulled up by the strings, and he walked over to Ôx’xâ. The star of chaos upon the Horned Helmet glowed brighter. The demons within knew what was about to happen. With the utterance of an arcane word, Zeraga dismissed the energy field encasing Ôx’xâ, at which point he picked up the demon-forged artifact. A dark, rumbling laughter, not unlike churning lava, filled Zeraga’s mind.
We are reunited once more, Doomfire. Charaezohar’en said. Perhaps this cycle is the one when you will finally see that the struggle against chaos is pointless. After all, your queen has abandoned you, but I remain.
You remain because you have no other choice, demon. Zeraga snapped back. You and your kin are no match for the sorceries woven by my children.
Or perhaps we are merely biding our time, Doomfire. After all, what is a handful of millennia to one who has an eternity?
Zeraga didn’t reply. This was far from the first time Charaezohar’en had tried to aggravate him, always with the intent of weakening his will so that he would be easier to possess. It hadn’t worked before. It wouldn’t work now. Zeraga walked to the door, opened it, and left the throne room, going down the hallway and entering his armory. It was a room of gold, copper, and ruby with racks upon which lay Hellscythe, the Hate Furnace, the Sword of Blood and Scales, and the Shield of the Twin Dragons. Ôx’xâ was not stored with these relics because Zeraga did not want the Horned Helmet conspiring with Hellscythe; and the Horned Helmet was by far the greater of the two evils. Hellscythe was at least kept in check by the eldritch bindings that Asmodeus had placed upon it eons ago, bindings that still held strong. Still, Zeraga felt reluctance and disgust within himself as he picked up Hellscythe, more so because he could tell that the weapon was eager to be wielded again; its telepathic presence was one of eager bloodthirst. But, without the blood-rage bestowed by the weapon combined with the might of Ôx’xâ, there was no hope for victory. Zeraga solemnly took up his relics, marching slowly between them, thus completing his panoply of war, for he had not removed his armor since his arrival on Cybele. There had been no need; he did not sleep, and his armor was like a second skin.
Leaving the armory, Zeraga proceeded through the hallways and corridors of the fortress, going ever downward. He was the only one in the fortress; there were no guards because he had no need of them. The walls were iron, devoid of the scintillating ornamentation so common to the Crimson Dragons, instead austere and militant like the exterior of the fortress and the rest of the legion’s base.
The fortress’s front gate opened before Zeraga with a minor telepathic command, and he passed through the threshold. Night had fallen upon Cybele, though the darkness was no obstacle for Zeraga’s vision. There were a few Crimson Dragons standing guard nearby, nodding in acknowledgement of their Legion Master as he emerged. He did not return the gesture, instead spreading his wings and taking flight.
From on high, the Crimson Dragons’ base looked like a maze of horrid scars upon Cybele’s landscape, particularly the dark, jagged lines of the three parallels and the connecting saps that the legion had dug, the foundation of their siegeworks: a deathtrap of spikes, advancing trenches, bunkers, and emplacements consisting of inferno cannons and the legion’s siege engines, hulking behemoths of iron, feyrferreus, and adamantine with diabolical visages, fueled by blood and hellfire and hungering for death.
Zeraga began his descent toward the third parallel, and he reached out with his will, searching for Obzhorvyx and soon finding him.
Lord Zeraga, the Siege-Master said, I am most grateful for your quick arrival.
The gratitude went unfelt by Zeraga. I know that you would not have called for me unless you absolutely had to. Now, the Doomfire descended toward the central region of the third parallel where it had been dug deepest to connect with tunnels that had been created for the glayruk serfs to move more easily amidst the siegeworks without the risk of being attacked. It was in this main hub that Obzhorvyx stood. Zeraga landed next to him. What are the astranaari doing now? the Doomfire asked.
Though they have taken great pains to conceal it with their Heaven-granted sorceries, Obzhorvyx replied, our scouts have reported that a large force of them is mustering just beyond the range of our guns and at the opposite angle of our parallels. This started not even a full cycle ago and attempts to bait them into pitched battle by sending out the Crimsonblessed have come to naught. Furthermore, this force is the strongest we have encountered yet; they are supported by one of the yahtynym.
Then how are they keeping themselves hidden from us? Zeraga growled. How is it that there is still darkness all around us? The yahtynym were enormous, golden-scaled dragons from the Perfectly Ordered Heaven of Qanûn and were, in many ways, a mirror to the Fire-Brides of Pandemonium; and the yahtynym were also infused with such radiance that they glowed brighter than the rising sun on the first day of summer while their flames were the cleansing powers of law and light in their purest form.
I wish I had an answer for you, father. Obzhorvyx said. What would you have us do?
Before Zeraga could reply, three of the nearby Crimson Dragons cried out in pain, dropping their weapons, falling to their knees, and clamping their hands upon their heads. Zeraga telepathically reached out to his children and knew immediately that they were not alone in their own minds. Soon, more screams split the air all across the third parallel.
Is this your doing? Zeraga growled at Ôx’xâ.
Charaezohar’en laughed. You would certainly like that, wouldn’t you?
Of the three legionnaires around Zeraga and Obzhorvyx, their skin began to peel off in sheets as their flesh melted like candlewax, and their limbs, particularly their hands, became distended; and tendrils of violet sorcery skittered all across their bodies, catalyzing the macabre transformations.
The Lords of the Reaping Shadow. Zeraga said as he stalked toward one of his afflicted children. They are here. With a single stroke of Hellscythe, the Doomfire cut down the Crimson Dragon, and the flowing gore, the departing soul, nourished the demoniac weapon.
The other two Crimson Dragons, now no longer recognizable as such because of the warped, skeletal creatures they had become, leaped forward, one at Zeraga, the other at Obzhorvyx. Neither made it far. Both devils fired their inferno weapons, incinerating their kin and leaving only ashes behind.
Of course Bhaaz’s favorite minions followed us here. Obzhorvyx said bitterly. The Lord of the Tenth Hell undoubtedly wants whatever Asmodeus is seeking here, and the Lords of the Reaping Shadow are eager to repay us for having defeated them on Uzaadyn.
And we will make sure that neither Bhaaz nor the Lords of the Reaping Shadow get what they want. Zeraga replied. Sound the alarm, and then go right. I will go left. Exterminate those who have fallen to this necromantic plague, rally any survivors, and meet back here.
As you say, Lord Zeraga. For Asmodeus and the Legion.
Zeraga’s only reply came in the form of donning Ôx’xâ, the Horned Helmet of Desolation, as he called upon the wellspring of unholy vigor within Hellscythe. The pall of lurid flames and crimson mist fell upon the Doomfire’s mind, and he enlarged once more into that baleful being armored in onyx scales, with jagged tendrils of hellfire snarling and lashing all about him, his war-plate enlarging with him. Obzhorvyx’s eyes widened with a mixture of fear and awe. Zeraga paid his son no mind as he stalked toward his next battle.
Some of the scribes of the Crimson Dragons would later write in the annals of the legion that in those next moments, Zeraga was glad to have been in thrall to his demonic artifacts, for though he had ordered Obzhorvyx to rescue any legionnaires in the third parallel who could be rescued, and Zeraga had gone forth with that goal in mind, he was soon face to face with the horrible truth. There were none worth rescuing. As the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons made his way through the parallel, rangy, skeletal undead that had once been his children leaped at him from all sides, turning on their father with a viciousness and cruelty born from mindless hatred; and there were gore-caked heaps of armor, weapons, skin, and flesh strewn all over. Zeraga fought back against the undead with all of his vigor and fury, slicing with his blades, bashing with his shield, and firing his pistol. And that was why the Doomfire would later tell his scribes that he was glad for the dark rage. It kept him from feeling guilty about having to slay his own children, of having to repeat the tragedies that had transpired on the Frozen Dirges of Uzaadyn.
Zeraga arrived at the end of the parallel, glutted on the blood and souls of his former children, growling in rage. Directly across from the Doomfire stood… an astranaari? An Azdorma’ari. The milk-white man with long, golden hair had red eyes that glowed like the sharpened ruby atop Hellscythe, marking him as one who distantly had the blood of the four hundred and twenty-sixth incarnation of Zeraga Baal’khal running through his veins. The mortal, diminutive compared to Zeraga, was clad in feyrferreus war-plate with enchanted Nyrrakhân runes upon it that glowed as bright as his eyes; and he also wore a cloak of feathers the color of molten brass, clasped to his shoulders by stylized skulls flanked by bat-like wings. In his right hand, the Azdorma’ari held a malevolent battle-blade crafted in the same style as his armor. The sword was as long as he was tall, and he gripped the weapon with a cruel, casual ease.
On either side of the Azdorma’ari stood a colossus of bone with gigantic pieces of armor wrought from sculpted metal riveted to them. There were inky voids where the eyes of the colossi should have been, and their toothy grins with prominent fangs were devoid of emotion. Their hands held hammers of bone; the handles were femurs taken from predators of immense size, perhaps an a’aggyri; and the hammers’ heads were constituted entirely from skulls that had once belonged to devils. Even in his raging state, Zeraga recognized the bone golems as those routinely used by the Lords of the Reaping Shadow when waging war.
“Mighty Doomfire,” the Azdorma’ari called, “how good it is that you have arrived. I am Lord Hyrysha’a, and it is to me that you shall account for the slaying of my beloved sister and the destruction of my homeland. Surrender now, and I will find it in me to be merciful.”
“You,” Zeraga growled back, “offering mercy to me?” He barked a laugh. “I will spill your guts upon the ground, and your blood and soul shall be Hellscythe’s next feast. Slaughter!”
Slaughter! Hellscythe screamed back, its voice amplified by those within Ôx’xâ.
Zeraga was already charging, firing the Hate Furnace one, two, three times at the bone golem on the right as he conjured a hellfire axe and hurled it at the other ossified behemoth. The globes of crimson energy and the hellfire axe hit their marks, shattering the golems’ faces, though they strode forward as though nothing had happened and swung their hammers at Zeraga. Amidst this initial exchange, Hyrysha’a began casting a spell.
The hammers descended with a quickness belied by the bone golems’ bulk. Zeraga darted forward, passing beneath the hammers before they could strike him, at which point he hurled himself into the air, ascending with wingbeat after forceful wingbeat, each sounding like the crack of three whips at once. The hammers then struck the ground with thunderous force, at which point the bone golems raised their weapons to strike again, deftly recovering and soon barring Zeraga’s path, soon sending the monoliths of skulls that were the hammers’ heads speeding toward him once more.
And Hyrysha’a finished his spell. The Azdorma’ari began levitating as a spectral, purple horse with burning, white eyes and sinewy, bat-like wings manifested under him. The next moment saw him charging up toward Zeraga, the runes on his brandished sword flaring with a new, black light. “Your time has come, Doomfire!” Hyrysha’a cried, “For Pyrasaav’rí!”
From Hyrysha’a’s sword screamed a lance of black energy that glowed as bright as the rising sun, the power of the Eternal Darkness of Ur-Dûr-Valatî that the necromancers of the Thirteen Hells called upon often. Zeraga shunted himself back as he called upon Ôx’xâ. From the Horned Helmet of Desolation surged a torrent of chaos-flame that leaped upon the head of the first bone hammer and began devouring it, white ashes falling like crumbs from a glutton’s clothes. The second hammer clipped Zeraga’s chest and sent him spiraling down as he was wracked with pain. The lance of black energy struck Ôx’xâ a moment later, dissolving into jagged, inky tendrils that clawed and scraped the Horned Helmet in an attempt to sunder it.
It was not Charaezohar’en who had repulsed the attack, but rather Orzhym, a vampire-demon who was well-acquainted with the power currently being wielded against his oubliette. The cold, piercing anger of the gaunt fiend granted Zeraga a strange lucidity that allowed him to stabilize and then start ascending. He pointed the Hate Furnace at Hyrysha’a and fired. As the wrathful, red orb closed the distance to the Azdorma’ari, Ôx’xâ absorbed the remaining energy from Hyrysha’a’s lance. Hyrysha’a flew out of the way of Zeraga’s shot; the two bone golems swept their hammers toward the devil, trying to catch him in a pincer maneuver; and the energy that Ôx’xâ had absorbed was sent hurtling back toward the Azdorma’ari as a snarling ball of black lightning that sought him with the fervor of a bloodhound. Charaezohar’en, aided by Nekros Gorethirster and Ira-Xul-Gar, two of the other demons bound within Ôx’xâ, then created a sphere of bright, yellow energy, drawn from the Primordial Chaos-Void, encasing Zeraga.
Pandemonium ensued. The bone hammers struck the chaos energy and exploded as they were repudiated, sending chunks and slivers of bone, some larger than Hyrysha’a, flying everywhere. The ball of black lightning and the shot from the Hate Furnace struck the Azdorma’ari’s mount and ended its existence as though it were no more than a candle being snuffed out, and Pyrasaav’rí’s brother screamed as he found himself falling. Zeraga cried out with bestial joy.
But, as the Doomfire tried to dismissed the yellow sphere, he found that he could not.
Release me. he growled at Charaezohar’en.
Release you? replied the greatest of Ôx’xâ’s demons with feigned innocence. I am only working to protect you. Surely, you can see that the danger is far from over.
Release me! Zeraga sent a lance of telepathic energy into Charaezohar’en.
The demon easily countered but did not retaliate. You’ll have to do better than that, Doomfire.
Zeraga struck again, and again, and again, Charaezohar’en blocking each time. Throughout the telepathic clash, the bone golems remained perfectly still, as though knowing that it would be ruinous to strike again; and before Zeraga could make what he hoped would be the deciding blow upon Charaezohar’en, Hyrysha’a’s screaming came to an abrupt stop, and a sickening crack sounded off. It was then that the runes upon his war-plate glowed with new, red light that overshadowed the blood pooling beneath him.
What is happening down there? Zeraga demanded of Hellscythe.
Why should I tell you? the weapon replied. You can’t do anything about it anyway.
Zeraga grunted in frustration. Of course Hellscythe had refused. Zeraga should have known better than to ask. Now that Hellscythe was encased in the sphere of chaos energy, the bindings placed upon it were weaker, freeing the weapon to assume the identity of who it had been before being forced into its current state: the demon Apollyon.
The red glow emanating from the runes upon Hyrysha’a’s armor brightened, and from the breastplate rose a monolith of pure necromancy, effulgently violet, that consumed all that remained of Hyrysha’a. From the eldritch pillar emerged one of the most feared and hated beings in the multiverse: the archdevil Bhaaz, who was the Lord of Chelgorgos, the tenth Hell of Nyrrakhâ. Bhaaz was an eight-foot-tall humanoid bat with muscular shoulders, biceps, and thighs covered in dark gray skin while his forearms, hands, calves, and feet were covered in sleek, onyx fur. Sharp, black claws tipped his fingers and toes. Most telling of all, Bhaaz’s head was undeniably bat-like, with red eyes and sharp fangs; and his large wings were black and bat-like as well. The Lord of Chelgorgos wore a suit of war-plate wrought from bone, the same bone that constituted his domain, engraved with glowing, infernal runes, gigantic, horned skulls serving as the pauldrons. He wielded a glaive of similar make.
Raising his glaive, the archdevil let out a baleful screech. From the necromantic monolith behind him flew more devils, all of whom resembled the Lord of Chelgorgos in the same way that the Crimson Dragons resembled Zeraga, for each of the Lords of the Reaping Shadow had within them a sliver of Bhaaz’s own soul which they had to constantly feed through their own acts of bloodletting. The Lords of the Reaping Shadow were clad in armor of bone and iron; and they wielded jagged, serrated weapons of the same; and a few of them were riding winged bone golems, lacking flesh but levitating by means of the same enchantments that animated them.
“Go forth, my children!” Bhaaz cried, “Seize the Doomfire!”
The Lords of the Reaping Shadow were a deathly tide of black, white, red, and purple as they charged Zeraga, bolts of hellfire and necromantic energy streaking from their weapons and mounts. Bhaaz cast a spell, and caustic blood began raining from the sky in thick sheets. The sorcerous onslaughts truck the chaos energy encasing Zeraga all at once, overpowering it, shattering it. Freed, the Doomfire hurled himself into his foes, firing the Hate Furnace and unleashing waves of hellfire as Ôx’xâ disgorged bolts of bright, blue lightning and blasts of chaos-flame. Devils and bone golems fell all around, and then Zeraga was ensconced in melee with the Lords of the Reaping Shadow, losing himself in the bloody, fiery euphoria.
*
“I was aboard the Baalkhalizar when I received word that Bhaaz himself had arrived and was leading the Lords of the Reaping Shadow against us,” Irzaval said, “and at the time, I was excited, excited at the prospect of slaying an archdevil who had plagued us, plagued Asmodeus, for so long. I had the opportunity to be the greatest child of Zeraga who had ever lived.” The former Crimson Dragon paused as he had so often during the telling of his tale, and he frowned. “That was what I thought I wanted, but I realize now that those thoughts were not my own, for as was the custom of the Crimsonblessed, I had taken the Doomfire’s Fangs into the meat of my brain. I would not wish that on even my worst enemy. To wear the Fangs is to give yourself up to a living hell where the only way you can know even a semblance of peace is to throw yourself wholeheartedly into the slaughter of your enemies. But, nevertheless, many of us succumbed to the temptation of the strength, agility, and vitality offered by those pain engines of bronze and bone which contained the flesh and blood of the Doomfire.
“And so it was, with bloodthirsty pipedreams swirling in my mind, that I eagerly obeyed Equerry Zamyyr’s orders for all of the legionnaires still aboard the Baalkhalizar to muster and prepare for immediate teleportation to Cybele’s surface; the Bloodkeepers below had already established the locus. We left only a few glayruk serfs and myrzor behind, for they would be of no use to us in a battle of such cataclysmic proportions.
“Once on the surface, we of the Crimsonblessed raced to join Zeraga while Equerry Zamyyr immediately ordered all of our war engines, what remained of them after the severe punishment they had received from our enemies, to fire upon Bhaaz. I’ll never forget the site of it. It was as though a hundred suns were all hurtling toward the archdevil, culminating in an explosion that, for the brief period of its existence, made the battlefield as bright as the Eternal Light of Jiyaanu, a twisted mockery of it. When the smoke cleared, Bhaaz was no longer there, but we knew better than to believe that he had died. He had retreated to Chelgorgos to determine his next move.
“The Lords of the Reaping Shadow retreated shortly thereafter, for they had no reinforcements and were caught between both the Crimson Dragons and the army of Thassai-Xyr that had now joined the battle. It is a good thing that the Lords retreated. I do not know if the Crimson dragons would have been in existence to wage the final crusade to Ag’graaza otherwise…”
*
Zeraga stood at the center of a stone room shrouded in shadows. He didn’t remember having come out of his rage, didn’t remember the dissipation of the pall of crimson mist and raging flames that allowed lucidity to come flowing in like cool, fresh water. Nor did Zeraga remember the battle ending. His body was as it was normally, and he still wore his war-plate. But, his weapons, particularly Hellscythe and Ôx’xâ, were gone. Zeraga telepathically reached out to the weapon and scowled when he found nothing.
Where am I? the devil thought as he walked toward the room’s exit, soon passing through the threshold.
Beyond lay a corridor that was just as featureless as the room from which Zeraga had come. It curved to the left for a while, then right. And then, Zeraga was back in the same room, unease clenching his stomach and running down his spine. He tried reaching out telepathically to Zamyyr, who was still aboard the Baalkhalizar. Zeraga received nothing; his inkling was confirmed. He was not on Cybele anymore, not even on the plane that contained the nearly infinite mortal worlds. The Doomfire found himself in a different part of the multiverse entirely.
As for how, Zeraga could think of only two things. The first, and perhaps likeliest, was that Charaezohar’en and the other eight demons within Ôx’xâ had finally won the psychic war that the Doomfire fought with them every time he wore the Horned Helmet of Desolation. The second thing that could have happened was that Bhaaz had triumphed, taken Zeraga prisoner, and, naturally, parted him from Hellscythe. But, if that were the case, Zeraga knew that he would have sensed that he had at least returned to the Thirteen Hells; most beings in the multiverse instinctively knew when they had returned to their home planes, and that was an instinct that even Bhaaz couldn’t change. Unless the Lord of Chelgorgos had instead imprisoned Zeraga on a different plane…
Zeraga shook his head in frustration. There was no way of knowing with any certainty what had happened or why, and did it really matter? Knowing the reasons did nothing to change the fact that he wasn’t where he needed to be. Still, there was one more thing he could try. Hoping beyond hope, Zeraga cast the spell to summon Hellscythe, for it had been known to work even when the Doomfire and the weapon were on different planes, such was the intimacy of the bond that Asmodeus had created between them. Zeraga finished the spell, and there was a flash of crimson energy vaguely in the shape of a scythe, as though Hellscythe were trying to manifest. The weapon wasn’t successful. The energy of Zeraga’s spell dissipated, and the air around the devil became colder, heavier, as his hope withered away.
“No,” Zeraga whispered, hissing the world. Had Hellscythe betrayed him? It wouldn’t be the first time. Zeraga perished the train of thought; it was as fruitless as ruminating about how he had ended up in this extradimensional prison of stone and shadow.
Instead, the Doomfire began reciting a second incantation not entirely unlike the first, for he had now started to summon Ôx’xâ. Almost immediately, chaos energy from all around surged into Zeraga; the sensation was at once ethereal and grounding. A vortex of prismatic energy engulfed the pair of hands he had held out to perform the esoteric gestures required for the spell. Zeraga could also faintly hear a strange, humming rhythm that shifted according to whichever color was most prominent within the vortex. His stomach twisted. This was not what was supposed to be happening, but Zeraga had no choice but to finish the spell, not only because of what the gathered chaos energy would do without the incantation to sculpt it into some semblance of coherency, but also because the devil felt strangely compelled to keep reciting the words, enchanted by his own sorcery.
As the last words left Zeraga’s mouth, his two gesturing hands melted into a single mass that was in every way like hot, bubbling tar, and though Zeraga’s jaw dropped as horror gripped him, no pain accompanied the mutation. The tar-like mass bubbled faster, soon forming into a head. It was a bestial visage with a thick, black hide; large horns; and eyes, mouth, and mane of orange-white flames, altogether a reflection of the countenance Zeraga took on when he was filled with the power of Ôx’xâ, for it was the face of Charaezohar’en; and as the face formed, Zeraga felt that demon’s tenebrous presence entering his mind, laughing.
You cannot know how ironic I find it that you call upon my prison for aid. the demon said.
The realization struck Zeraga. Because I am trapped inside here, too. Zeraga’s heart started pounding, and his body tensed as rage reared up within him. Let me go. Now.
Charaezohar’en laughed louder, and Zeraga felt revulsion, a undeniable sense of wrong that went beyond the physical; it was hard to put the sensation of his own, twisted flesh laughing back at him into words.
Let me go. Zeraga reiterated.
You have always been ungrateful for everything I do for you. Charaezohar’en replied. Everything that you make me do for you. I told you that I am working to protect you, and I am still doing that, as are the other eight who share this helmet with me.
You’ll understand when I say that I don’t believe you. Zeraga said through gritted teeth.
After everything we have been through together, almighty Doomfire, Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons? Charaezohar’en smiled. Very well. Allow me to show you what is really transpiring upon Cybele.
The demon’s countenance melted away, and the tar-like mass of flesh distended upward into an oval-like shape filled with the same flames that constituted Charaezohar’en’s mane, eyes, and mouth, though the flames soon parted to reveal a smooth, silvery surface in which Zeraga saw himself, still in the grip of his demon-granted rage, still at the center of a maelstrom of war. However, his foes were no longer the Lords of the Reaping Shadow. Neither they nor Bhaaz were anywhere to be found. The Doomfire was instead surrounded by the gold-and-skull clad warriors of Thassai-Xyr along with their ornate automatons. Beyond stood the capital of the astranaari nation, an elegant city of gold and marble, with domes and minarets and terraces all in perfect harmony with one another. Behind Zeraga were the Crimson Dragons’ lines of war machines disgorging great choruses of superheated hellfire and crimson lightning; cavalry that harried the sides and flanks of the astranaari army; and gold-and-ruby clad infernal legionnaires who marched inexorably forward, firing inferno rifles and pistols as they hacked down their foes with swords, axes, and maces. Overheard soared the yahtynym, the glowing, golden dragon from Heaven that was as large as a Fire-Bride, unleashing infernos of gold and silver flames that melted the war machines of the Crimson Dragons and evaporated squads of the devils themselves.
It was this last sight, that of the yahtynym, that brought Zeraga the most sorrow. Sha’eryzhura would have been more than a match for the dragon and kept it from meting out righteous destruction with impunity. If only Zeraga hadn’t driven the Queen of the Crimson Dragons into going back to Zehtlkha’an… Now, he had to watch more of his children die over a conversation that they knew nothing about.
See? Charaezohar’en said. All things considered, I would say that the battle is going quite well.
Zeraga started snarling in rage as he fixed his gaze upon himself in the melee, dismembering and demolishing the forces of Thassai-Xyr. More than anything else, Zeraga wanted to be there, wanted to be in control of himself again. Mustering all his willpower, he lashed out at Charaezohar’en, his strike powered by desperation. Charaezohar’en barked in pain, and the ever-changing images in the mirror snapped into sharp focus, as though one were watching them through a window above. Zeraga lurched forward, about to dive into the weird mirror of shadows and flames wrought from his own hands, when the scene of the battle relapsed into its previous murkiness; and four long, clawed limbs of solid shadows burst from the mirror and raked Zeraga’s face, shoulders, and chest all at once, passing through his war-plate as though it weren’t there. Pain bloomed in the devil’s bleeding wounds as he was sent staggering back, instinctively stretching the arms from which the mirror had grown to put more distance between him and it. The shadowy limbs struck again. Zeraga twisted so that only his left side was sliced as he threw out his two free right arms and willed a pair of hellfire swords into existence, not even thinking about whether or not being trapped in the Horned Helmet of Desolation would keep that innate power from answering him.
As the shadowy limbs raced along their arcs, hot knives coursed through Zeraga’s veins, and he grinned as the hellfire swords manifested explosively, throwing sparks everywhere and melting the darkness with their lurid light. The next moments passed in a fiery blur as Zeraga fought back the limbs, matching them strike for strike before finally amputating them all in rapid succession. The limp appendages unraveled before they could hit the chamber floor, and the mirror’s edges began bubbling as black tendrils sprouted from them. Barking, Zeraga lunged and drove his hellfire swords into the mirror. The sight of the battle within disappeared; Charaezohar’en’s bloodcurdling roar sounded off all around, reverberating through the chamber; and the black tendrils about the mirror’s edges fell limp.
Zeraga moved to strike again. Before he could follow through, the pain of an inferno engulfing him wracked his body and soul. He screamed in pain as he frantically searched for the source. He could tell on an atavistic level that these flames had not come from Ag’graaza, nor had they come from the Thirteen Hells. They had come from Heaven.
Which meant that they had come from beyond, putting Zeraga closer to freedom. He focused on the pain as it continued to build, focused on being where those heavenly flames were. The devil’s next screams were of entwined agony and euphoria, and he found himself yearning for the next scathing. A sense of ephemerality permeated the Doomfire; he wasn’t fully in Ôx’xâ anymore, and it was because of that that his euphoria overtook his agony.
You will not escape! The upper half of the mirror warped into Charaezohar’en’s head, enlarged such that it was as large as the upper half of Zeraga’s body, and the demon breathed its hateful flames upon the Doomfire.
One of Zeraga's hellfire swords darted up to block Charaezohar’en’s onslaught; the weapon distended into a shield with a minor exertion of Zeraga’s will. The devil slashed Charaezohar’en’s face with his other hellfire sword, leaving a bright, burning wound, but still the demon did not relent in his assault. Zeraga conjured a hellfire sword in one of his left hands and slashed with both swords at once, carving into Charaezohar’en’s face. The demon roared in pain as his flames stopped and his head melted away; Zeraga could feel his foe’s telepathic presence receding. Soon, all that remained was the joyful torment of the heavenly flames from beyond. Zeraga focused on that, and the sense of ephemerality returned, rapidly intensifying until the devil was certain that he was going to lose consciousness. And then—
Zeraga opened his eyes to a hellscape of blood and flames. Hellscythe sliced through a trio of astranaari warriors; the Sword of Blood and Scales sheered through a golden, humanoid automaton animated by an earth elemental; and the Hate Furnace fired up at the yahtynym, disgorging globes of superheated death, never actually hitting the dragon but still warding it off enough that Zeraga could continue his slaughter. Beyond the immediate fighting were patches of combat where the Crimson Dragons struggled against the warriors of Thassai-Xyr amid hillocks of corpses, and the ground was red from all of the gore that had been spill this fateful cycle.
Finally decided to join us again? Hellscythe asked, giving the telepathic equivalent of a wide, toothy grin.
Rage reared up within Zeraga like an ancient wyrm awakening after having slumbered for far too long. Now that he was back in control of himself, he was again gripped by the same baleful powers that lent him size, strength, quickness, and vitality. In that moment, he hated everything around him, wanted to shatter this world that had brought him so much misery, and he hated that he had been brought here to fight for an unknown goal that wasn’t his own. Most of all, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he hated himself. He hated that he had needlessly sacrificed so many of his children. He hated that he had alienated the love of his life. He hated that he allowed himself to be so thoroughly enslaved by Asmodeus, didn’t have the courage to fully rebel against the Lord of Golgotha even after everything that had happened since arriving on Cybele.
But, there was one way that the Doomfire could find peace, at least for a little while. He spread his wings and took flight, speeding up toward the shining, golden-scaled behemoth above like a wrathful arrow, and as he closed the distance, he screamed. Zeraga screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed, heedless of the tears pouring from his eyes, for they were evaporated by the heat of the Hate Furnace and the hellfire spears that he was now hurling at the yahtynym. The dragon breathed its flames at Zeraga, consuming his attacks as they surged toward it. Furiously, Zeraga beat his wings, climbing higher and higher into the air; the roar of flames beneath him told him that he had flown high enough. Now, he was above the yahtynym.
The dragon shunted itself back with a mighty beat of its wings, and the force of the motion threw Zeraga back as well. Already, the yahtynym was inhaling deeply, preparing to unleash its next wave of gold and silver flames. Zeraga stabilized and pointed the Hate Furnace at his foe. Before either dragon or devil could attack, a thunderous roar from on high shattered the air. It was a roar that Zeraga would have recognized anywhere, for it belonged to Sha’eryzhura. The Doomfire looked up and witnessed the descent of the Fire-Bride of Pandemonium, majestic and ferocious, and she was not alone, either. Upon her neck rode Asmodeus, the Lord of Golgotha, his warhammer and shield ensorcelled with crimson lightning. Behind the archdevil and the a’aggyri came a great host of gargoyle-like devils clad in adamantine war-plate and bearing adamantine weapons, the Nyrrakhân runes upon them glowing like so many red-hot coals.
“No!” Zeraga roared at the top of his lungs, his voice warped by the influence of his supernatural rage. The star of chaos upon Ôx’xâ brightened, and from it streaked a lance of chaos-flame, straight toward Asmodeus. The next moment saw Zeraga firing the Hate Furnace at the yahtynym as he ascended with a sharp crack of his wings, charging at Asmodeus and the Queen of the Crimson Dragons, wordlessly screaming his unfettered hatred.
Asmodeus annihilated the chaos-flame lance with a bolt of crimson lightning, at which point Sha’eryzhura slammed full bore into the yahtynym and sunk her claws into its sides, causing streams of scintillating, silver blood to start pouring from its now-broken scales. The heavenly dragon reared its head and roared in pain, at the same time sending the flames that it had been saving for Zeraga up into the air, a great geyser of gold and silver that was soon raining down upon the combatants. Then, the shot from the Hate Furnace slammed into the dragon’s neck, searing through scales and flesh so that blood started hemorrhaging. The silverly waterfall, along with the other streams of blood flowing out of the yahtynym, became the crimson mist upon which Hellscythe fed, for Zeraga had very nearly closed the distance to Asmodeus. Meanwhile, the gargoyle-devils clad in adamantine touched down upon Cybele’s surface, a wrathful rain of metal and hellfire; and they immediately set to butchering the forces of Thassai-Xyr and the Crimson Dragons alike.
“It doesn’t have to be this way, Zeraga!” Asmodeus called, “Turn back from this folly, and we will claim Cybele together. You and the rest of the Crimson Dragons can still leave in glory!”
“I hate you!” Zeraga screamed back. “Every word you say is a device to enslave me! No more! Slaughter!” The Doomfire closed the distance to Asmodeus and swung Hellscythe and fired the Hate Furnace; at the same time, bolts of bright, orange lightning screamed from his eyes.
Asmodeus blocked the shot from the Hate Furnace and the lightning bolts with his shield, explosions sounding off as the enchanted iron absorbed the impact; and the Lord of Golgotha blocked Hellscythe with his warhammer. Before either Zeraga or Asmodeus could draw their weapons back to strike again, prismatic energy sprayed from Ôx’xâ in every direction; Zeraga could feel the wills of the nine demons working in concert.
And then, Zeraga and Asmodeus were spirited away from the battle, away from Cybele.
*
“At first,” Irzaval said, “we were glad for the return of Sha’eryzhura, for we had all heard the rumors that she had deserted us and were therefore glad to see them proven false; and though we had also heard rumors that Zeraga was planning to rebel against Asmodeus, we were also glad to see the archdevil riding upon her neck, charging at the yahtynym that the Doomfire had chosen as his next enemy. And then, we noticed that Asmodeus and Sha’eryzhura had brought the Doombringers with them.
“That was when we wished instead that we still had the Lords of the Reaping Shadow to contend with. The Doombringers have since taken the position of being Asmodeus’s most favored legion, but back then, they were considered second-best, and they were always jealous of the praise and wealth that the Lord of Golgotha lavished upon the Crimson Dragons. As such, it goes without saying that they gleefully took the opportunity to vent their jealousy. And they did.” Irzaval sighed. “Oh, how they did…
“And then, the rumors about Zeraga rebelling against Asmodeus came true when the Doomfire attacked the archdevil. They fought for a few moments before suddenly disappearing; I did not get a clear view of what had happened because I, and many of the others, were much more focused on the corpse of the yahtynym, slain by our glorious Queen, crashing to the ground. Then, along with Zamyyr, she rallied our forces while the Bloodkeepers created more autarchs, at which point we pushed on toward the gates of Thassai-Xyr. It is a wonder that we made it at all. The astranaari army, though mauled, was far from broken; and now it was joined by the remnants of the human and dwarven kingdoms. But even worse for us, angels from the Perfectly Ordered Heaven of Qanûn had come as well so that they might do battle against us, their ancient foes. And neither Zeraga Baal’khal nor Asmodeus, those who we all viewed as being our greatest chances at victory, were nowhere to be found…”
The End
Liked this story? Support my endeavors with a donation to either my Ko-Fi page (https://ko-fi.com/zeragabaalkhal) or my PayPal (burt.isaiah@gmail.com)
Next Chapter:
Find links to my published works here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/the-other-scrawlings-of-isaiah-burt
Comentarios