This is the fifteenth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The fourteenth chapter, Cathedral of the Horned Helmet 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
Asmodeus frowned, and a sigh slipped out from between his lips, expressing a melancholy that the archdevil hadn’t felt in many thousands of years and was more intense because of it. His throat was dry, and there was a hard knot in his chest. He hated that the situation called for what he was about to do.
“It was a difficult decision to make,” said Poisonteeth, Asmodeus’s sentient, serpentine tail. “But, it is ultimately the right one. We both know what must be done.”
Asmodeus nodded and sighed again. Presently, he stood before a door nestled deep within the dungeon beneath his palace, a dungeon that burrowed through Golgotha’s underground like giant roots which knew no end. No other devil, including Satan, knew exactly how far the dungeon went or how deep it descended. The Lord of Pandemonium did not know of the existence of the door before which Asmodeus stood, nor of the room beyond. That ignorance was undoubtedly for the best.
The door was a slab of smooth, light gray stone with a crimson, inverted pentagram emblazoned upon it, seemingly no different from any other door in Lower Golgotha, as Asmodeus called his dungeon. What told the archdevil that this door was different, that he had come to the right place, was the palpable aura of wrath he felt undulating beyond, like harsh, rolling waves on an eternally tumultuous sea, nearly solid enough that Asmodeus could shatter them with his warhammer. Furthermore, this wrath was not the blind and unfocused thing normally found in much of the rest of the twelfth Hell. It was instead an unrelenting, utterly caustic hatred focused upon a singular devil:
Zeraga Baal’khal.
For a moment, Asmodeus considered turning away. He still had whole battalions of Doombringers waiting to be deployed; and many other legions at his beck and call besides. He was an archdevil. His resources were nigh-limitless. When confronted with such overwhelming odds, Zeraga would surely see the wisdom in surrendering, right?
Poisonteeth let out a hissing, sardonic cachinnation as it rose as high as it could, putting its head level with the neck of its host. “We both already know the answer to that question, Asmodeus. It is pointless idealism to think that the answer is anything other than no. Need I remind you of the sixty-sixth incarnation?”
“No,” Asmodeus replied flatly. That incarnation of Zeraga was the reason for the first time he had had to seek out this chamber since its creation many tens of thousands of years ago. Asmodeus was certain that the sixty-sixth incarnation still lived, obfuscated from the rest of the multiverse, but the Lord of Golgotha had settled for the practical view of that affair: as long as that erstwhile champion did not meddle with the archdevil’s plans, he might as well be dead. Still, the fact that he lived was a thorn in Asmodeus’s side, a reminder that, perhaps, the archdevils of the Thirteen Hells were not as mighty as they wanted to believe they were.
Perishing the thought, and especially the insidious, writhing solicitude that came with it, Asmodeus began to recite an incantation. Poisonteeth turned so that it was facing behind Asmodeus, the serpent’s yellow, hypnotic eyes vigilant for any intruders. Asmodeus’s words were harsh, guttural, and snarled, an ancient dialect of Nyrrakhân intimately entwined with the sin of wrath. The inverted pentagram upon the door began to glow as though it were drinking in the archdevil’s words, invigorated by them, the red light slashing through the darkness and bathing Asmodeus and Poisonteeth.
The archdevil could feel the energy in the room beyond stirring as it started to rise. His tongue slipped on a particularly long word, and the aura lurched toward him, as though an enormous, invisible claw were waiting to snatch him up. Asmodeus’s heart skipped a beat as he continued the incantation, funereally intoning the last words. The aura receded from the door but also rose higher, as though waiting. The glowing, inverted pentagram pulsed at a steady pace. The first spell was done.
The Lord of Golgotha chanted eight more incantations after that. Each one was as taxing as the first; each one was a spell that only he knew. One by one, the eldritch wards within the chamber lowered, and finally, the door rumbled open, disappearing into the stone below and taking the sanguine light with it.
The chamber beyond was a perfect cube, eighteen feet in each dimension. The walls, floor, and ceiling were square slabs of lustrous, onyx-colored adamantine. Upon them were carved lines of softly pulsing red runes, the enchantments within them dormant. At the center of the floor stood an adamantine dais upon which was engraved more runes, and upon the dais lay a sarcophagus with a head shaped into a fiendish skull with a rictus grin.
A chill ran down Asmodeus’s spine as he entered the room. Each plodding step of the archdevil’s cloven hooves was like the ringing of a cathedral bell amid the oppressive silence. The room itself sought to stifle the advance of its creator. But, the Lord of Golgotha had come too far to turn back now. He was soon standing at the edge of the dais, the skull upon the sarcophagus leering up at him.
Poisonteeth turned to face the sarcophagus. “Go on,” the serpent whispered, its beckoning voice like oil gliding on water. “Awake the sleeper.”
“I know,” Asmodeus snapped back. “It was I who created him. It was I who created you. It was I who created this Hell. You would do well to remember that.”
“Always.” Poisonteeth lowered itself, and its forked tongue darted in and out of its mouth as it examined the runes upon the sarcophagus.
Asmodeus grimaced. For as much as he trusted Poisonteeth, certainly more than any devil in Nyrrakhâ, the ease with which the serpent had conceded to him was unsettling.
Turning his focus on the sarcophagus, Asmodeus began to cast a spell. The words to this one were harsh, sibilant, and whispered, as bestial as the previous nine incantations but crooning and insidious, a promise of pernicious deeds yet to be committed. Asmodeus finished the spell, and the sarcophagus’s runes started pulsing faster. A second incantation then began, more demanding than the first.
Three more incantations followed that one. As Asmodeus finished the fifth spell, the sarcophagus emitted a harsh click as internal mechanisms unlatched. A whoosh of air followed as the door swung open. And then, there was silence.
“Rise, Grendel,” Asmodeus commanded, outstretching his left hand toward the sarcophagus. “I have need of you again.”
“Kill,” snapped a guttural voice from within the sarcophagus. “Kill. Zeraga.” A humanoid figure rose. He was as tall as Asmodeus but much leaner, having a build like a prowling jaguar. Iron scales covered all of Grendel’s body save for his head, which was encased in a grinning skull exactly like the one atop his sarcophagus. From the back of Grendel’s head protruded a fist-sized mass of iron through which ran engorged, throbbing veins. From the mass hung a curtain of segmented, iron tentacles, each ending in a wickedly curved, bone fang with an edge made jagged by serrations. In his right hand, Grendel held an iron truncheon with Nyrrakhân runes engraved upon its whole length, all of them pulsing with dull, orange light. Grendel’s left hand held a serrated, bone sword with veins running across the blade.
Asmodeus nodded at the assassin. “Yes, Grendel. You will kill Zeraga. He can be found upon the fifth Hell beneath the mountains where the Swords of Addaduros once made their bastions.”
Grendel became an iron-colored blur as he leaped from his sarcophagus and ran out of the room, the tentacles on the back of his head lengthening as they trailed behind him, making him appear like an aberrant, metallic squid. The runes within the room and upon the sarcophagus then dulled. Asmodeus was alone, and he felt both relief and dread. His best chance at dealing with Zeraga had just run out of the room. But, what if Grendel failed?
Asmodeus perished the thought as he turned around and walked out of the room. Out of the eighteen times he had called upon Grendel, the assassin had only failed against the sixty-sixth incarnation. Furthermore, Grendel wouldn’t be working alone, far from it. There would be the Doombringers, the Fangs of Azazel, and the Sanguine Specters all working in concert to find and bring down the four hundred and twenty-eighth incarnation of the Doomfire. Grendel was, Asmodeus reasoned, mostly insurance against treachery on Azazel’s part. While the Lord of Golgotha had created Grendel for the express purpose of dispatching Zeraga if the need arose, the assassin would not hesitate to slay anyone who interfered with that task. Still, that Asmodeus needed that insurance was simply another sign that times had changed. He hated it.
The archdevil passed through the threshold, and the door automatically shut behind him. Already he could sense that the wards were powering back up. The next moment saw him chanting an incantation that teleported him out of the dungeon. He found a measure of catharsis in his physical form dissipating into the ethereal currents he had called forth.
He rematerialized on Golgotha’s surface. His palace was far enough away that it appeared to be no larger than his thumb. A starless sky of perpetual twilight reigned above, and there were swathes of tall grass and rolling hills in every direction. Asmodeus took a moment to savor the chill wind of his domain, whispering the despair of the damned.
Directly in front of the archdevil stood a fortress of dark stone, each of its bricks as large as a devil. A monolithic barbican framed the front portcullis, and gargoyle-shaped statues roosted upon the conical tops of the towers. Ballistae and cannons protruded from the crenellations. Hanging from the main keep were black and red banners bearing the sigil of the Doombringers, a screaming gargoyle head set upon a crimson inverted pentagram, and the main keep was further ornamented with accents of ruby and amethyst.
Regally, imperiously, Asmodeus strode toward the portcullis, and the cyclopean portal groaned as it started opening. The Lord of Golgotha waited until the portcullis had disappeared into the barbican, at which point he passed through the threshold into the Doombringers’ fortress. Beyond lay the courtyard which spanned the distance between the barbican and the main keep ahead. A path of slab-like stones connected the two, distending into a giant circle at the median. Thirteen statues stood equidistant about the circumference, and each one depicted one of the past heroes of the Doombringers, each a valorous devil who had given their all for Asmodeus and Golgotha. A field of tall grass lay on either side of the stone path, and from the grass grew twisted trees covered in black bark, their branches bearing leaves which were deathly shades of brown and green.
Asmodeus walked straight along the path, and the double doors of the main keep opened without any effort on his part as he approached, just as the portcullis had. From beyond emerged a pair of Doombringers. They immediately bowed before their lord.
“To what do we owe the honor of your presence, Lord Asmodeus?” one of the Doombringers asked as he rose.
“I wish to speak with Xaddenor,” Asmodeus replied, “Is he here?”
“He is. If it pleases you, lord, I will go and inform the Legion Master of your presence now.”
“And I,” the other Doombringer continued, “will attend you as we go to his hall.”
Asmodeus’s only reply was a curt nod. One of the Doombringers went back into the keep, soon disappearing into the hallway. The other Doombringer waited as Asmodeus entered, following behind him, the doors closing behind both devils.
Can you smell the fear on them? Poisonteeth asked. I am sure that word of their brethren’s failure to capture Zeraga has spread through their legion by now. Perhaps they think that you are here to punish them.
Let them think whatever they wish. Asmodeus replied apathetically. I already know what I am here for.
In front of the archdevil stood a hallway of smooth, dark stone. Upon the walls sprawled expansive murals of the Doombringers’ many engagements across thousands of battlefields, framed in bronze and accompanied by illuminated parchments telling the exact nature of each battle. A thick, richly woven tapestry covered the floor, depicting wave after wave of hellfire; the tapestry spanned from just beyond the double doors to where the hallway split into a T ahead.
Asmodeus paused for a moment to admire the art. Since the establishment of the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ, rarely a moment passed in the Lord of Golgotha’s immortal existence during which he wasn’t surrounded by opulence and beauty enough to rouse envy in even the most decadent and debauched mortal emperors. The archdevil’s palace, and Lower Golgotha, contained whole halls of works dedicated solely to his glory. That the Doombringers took the time to make art to immortalize their exploits, despite their existences also being devoid of the creeping grasp of senescence, pleased Asmodeus.
Many of the angels who had become the first devils had been artisans of no small skill: sculptors, painters, carvers, poets, writers, weavers, and many others, including those who made art from pure sorcery, creating radiant, scintillating displays with their wills and their incantations. Azazel had been one of those artisans. Asmodeus had many fond memories of watching the Lord of Addaduros coax beauty and grandeur from the obdurate, red rock of his domain, and Asmodeus had often added to those creations with choice rubies taken from the vaults of his palace. Did Azazel still have any of those sculptures? Asmodeus didn’t dare to be so hopeful.
From out of the right-hand path ahead came a woman, her strides as smooth as the River Styx gently lapping against its grassy banks in Golgotha. The woman was no larger than a mortal, perhaps half Asmodeus’s height, but she conducted herself with the smoldering confidence of one who had the blood of Nyrrakhâ running through her veins as surely as any devil. Her skin was a pale, pink-gray color, bearing gradients but no mottling, and she was beautiful in an otherworldly way, almost like an apparition. All she wore was a shimmering, purple skirt that was the same color as her flowing, curling hair, cascading from her head and down her full breasts with dark nipples. Her eyes resembled onyx jewels sparkling beneath a hot desert sun. Her left arm ended in a long, thin pincer which resembled a pair of scimitars set against each other, each svelte claw armored in a ribbed, wine-dark carapace. Her right arm was as human-like as her infernal form allowed and supported a platter upon which stood an urn and a goblet. Both the urn and the goblet were made of feyrferreus and studded with rubies, amethysts, and topazes. As she silently closed the distance to Asmodeus and the Doombringer, the Lord of Golgotha noticed the sweet, beckoning musk wafting from her.
Asmodeus recognized the servant as a lemure associated with the sin of lust, which was one of Golgotha’s primary sins along with wrath and envy. The lemures themselves were ascended versions of the valahiyan, the damned souls which permeated the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ and empowered the whole plane with their torment. Lemures also had the potential to ascend to true devils. By the laws of the Thirteen Hells, such devils were technically equal to those devils who had rebelled against Heaven, but Asmodeus, and many others among the original fallen angels, viewed lemure-spawned devils as abominable and impure. As such, lemures were best in two capacities: servants and shock troops, both expendable, both roles played by the glayruks before their Exodus.
“Does my lord desire to partake of our wine?” The Doombringer gestured to the urn and the goblet. “It is a hundred-thousand-year-old vintage pressed from the grapes of Arcadia and set to age in barrels coated with angel blood. I am given to understand that it has quite a rich flavor, rivaling those vintages kept in Pandemonium’s larders.”
Asmodeus smiled. “I will gladly partake.” He extended a waiting hand. Though he didn’t believe his underling’s claim about the wine rivaling those possessed by Satan, who was rumored to sip vintages pressed before the Fall, Asmodeus rarely turned down a goblet of good drink.
The Doombringer poured the dark, red wine from the urn into the goblet, at which point he took the goblet off the platter and handed it to Asmodeus. Taking the goblet, the archdevil lifted it to his lips and sipped. The wine had a bitter, smoky taste with a sweet undertone and a pungent aftertaste, the Arcadian grapes shining through. Asmodeus took another sip.
After a few moments, the other Doombringer returned, coming from the left side of the T. He stopped next to his fellow legionnaire and the lemure servant. “Legion Master Xaddenor waits to receive you in our great hall at your pleasure, Lord Asmodeus,” the arriving Doombringer said with a low, reverent bow.
Asmodeus drained the rest of his goblet in a single, soundless gulp. “Then let us not keep him waiting.” He stepped toward the lemure servant and set his empty goblet on the platter. The lemure swayed her hips and fluttered her lashes at the archdevil, and her musk strengthened, becoming sweeter. Asmodeus sneered at her. Such antics would have certainly overwhelmed a mortal, and the Lord of Golgotha cared not if the Doombringers amused themselves with the lemures, but he was far above such lowly harlots. He was tempted to execute the lemure for her advances but thought better of it; doing so would waste the rest of the good wine in the urn.
The Doombringers led Asmodeus through the left side of the T, leaving the lemure behind. That led into a staircase which ascended nine steps at a time before sharply turning at a right angle. The steps were made from adamantine and trimmed in feyrferreus, and various weapons, mostly swords, glaives, and axes forged in the rune-encrusted manner for which the Doombringers were known, lay upon racks built into the walls. Many of the weapons were relics and therefore primarily ornamental, but they served the practical purpose of ensuring that a weapon was always easily within reach, as the legion’s armory was in another wing of the stronghold.
Leveling off, the staircase yielded to a circular chamber which was about the size of Asmodeus’s throne room. The floor consisted of a singular slab of white, blue-veined marble tiled with an enormous rendering of the Doombringers’ crest, and copper covered the walls while molded trim framed grand paintings. A dome of ruby implanted with hellfire torches constituted the ceiling. Directly across from where Asmodeus and his escorts had entered stood a door of dark iron, shadows from the torches above playing across the icons of the legion and the lines of runes engraved upon it. Ordinarily, the icons and the runes would have been glowing red from their innate sorcery, but Asmodeus knew that the wards had been powered down due to his coming. The door swung open smoothly and soundlessly, as though it were made from shadows rather than iron taken from Dis, the third Hell of Nyrrakhâ.
Asmodeus and his escorts passed through the chamber and beyond the open door, entering a rectangular chamber which was longer than the circular one prior to it but approximately the same in overall size. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made from adamantine tiled with ruby, and hellfire torches were ensconced in lines upon the walls. Armored, gargoyle-like legionnaires stood at attention between the torches. None of the art of the previous areas of the keep was present here. Against the back wall of the room stood an opulent, adamantine throne framed in feyrferreus and ornamented with iron barbs and rubies carved into the form of leaping flames. In front of the throne stood Xaddenor, Legion Master of the Doombringers.
He was a hulking devil, a full head taller than every other Doombringer and packed with muscle nearly as obdurate as the rune-engraved adamantine armor in which he was clad. His battle-plate was trimmed in putrid orange feyrferreus from which sprouted ruby spikes. Xaddenor’s pauldrons were sculpted into the form of horned dragon heads, the renderings perfect down to the last scale, and a pair of draconic wings had been sculpted upon his faceplate, sloping up and over the sides, accentuated talons rising from them. The Legion Master’s belt was a thick length of oxidized, brown scales taken from the hide of an izeýzegôth, a species of behemoths that lumbered across all thirteen of Nyrrakhâ’s Hells. To the belt was clasped a pair of sheathed adamantine swords; both the blades and their scabbards bore the same infernal opulence as their wielder’s armor.
“Lord Asmodeus,” Xaddenor greeted, his voice harsh, rumbling. “Had I had more notice of your arrival, I would have been better prepared.” He bowed low before the Lord of Golgotha.
“It matters not.” Asmodeus gestured dismissively. “I did not come here to be feted. I came here because I have greater need of you and your legion.”
Straight to the point? Poisonteeth whispered to its host with feigned sadness. Not even going to toy with him a little?
I need them at their best, Asmodeus replied sharply, and they already have enough to fear from Zeraga.
“You shall have whatever you require of the Doombringers, my lord,” Xaddenor said, oblivious to the telepathic dialogue.
“I expect nothing less from my favored legion,” Asmodeus replied, “How soon can you have the First Battalion mustered upon the Black Lance?”
“Six cycles, my lord. No longer.”
Asmodeus nodded. “See it done and be ready to go to Addaduros on my command. It will fall to you to find and retrieve Zeraga Baal’khal by any means necessary. It matters not whether he returns to Golgotha alive or dead, but he must be found before he reclaims Ôx’xâ or Azazel’s forces find him, if they have not already.” He paused before adding, “I expect you to lead these operations personally, Legion Master.”
“Of course, my lord. I would never dream of sending the First Battalion into battle without myself at its head. Besides, it has been too long since I have had a good battle. My blades thirst.
“However, if my lord will permit me a few inquiries, does the Horned Helmet of Desolation really still exist? I thought it was destroyed when Charaezohar’en broke free and rampaged across Addaduros after the fall of the Crimson Dragons.”
“Had I had my way,” Asmodeus said, “Ôx’xâ would have been destroyed, and the demons within it would have been cast back into the bowels of Ag’graaza. However, I suspect that the Horned Helmet’s survival has something to do with one of Azazel’s plots, for though it was the last of the Crimson Dragons who bound Charaezohar’en back to Ôx’xâ after his rampage, warlocks from the Fangs of Azazel were there as well. All that is known is that the Horned Helmet disappeared once the binding was done, presumably having been sent back to the original place of its interment on Addaduros.”
“I see.” Xaddenor nodded. “What would you see done with Ôx’xâ should the Doombringers encounter it, my lord?”
“Slay anyone attempting to take it, and then bring it to my palace.”
“As you command, my lord. Was there anything else you would ask of my legion?”
“No. Await my kuryaazos.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Turning around, Asmodeus left the Doombringer’s great hall. He followed the path he had taken back out of the main keep. It wasn’t long before he was standing outside the main portcullis.
Might I ask a question of you now, Asmodeus? Poisonteeth said.
I have tolerated your questions since your creation, have I not? the Lord of Golgotha replied.
I felt it was better to make sure first, given your current state of agitation.
Get on with it.
What are you going to do if Azazel refuses to allow the Doombringers into his domain?
I will see to it that he doesn’t.
And how do you plan to do that?
Asmodeus didn’t answer the question, instead casting another spell of teleportation.
*
Azazel did not remember the last time he had entered this part of Azazos, his palace; he rarely left his throne room anymore. But, he knew immediately upon his arrival that it had been too long since he had come here. The archdevil stood at the entrance of a cave which had been carved into the lower region of Azazos many tens of thousands of years ago when Addaduros and the rest of the Thirteen Hells had still been young. Powerful enchantments wove a thick, stygian gloom which even devil-sight could not pierce. A small smile formed on Azazel’s goat-like face as he conjured a tiny pearl of hellfire no larger than one of his hardened, claw-like fingernails. In an instant, the great curtains of moss and bark hanging from the walls and ceiling were revealed, mottled from the light and darkness playing across them. Gnarled roots undulated across the open patches of wall like gently rolling waves, and many of them fed into the rich, brown loam which covered the floor. All of these plants, this verdant life which was so rare on the fifth Hell, had been a gift, like the lions who even now rested at the base of Azazel’s throne, from Geryon, the archdevil who ruled Malphaxas, the second Hell of Nyrrakhâ. Azazel took a deep breath of the dank, grit-free air. As he exhaled, his four pale, white eyes settled upon the only other devil in the room.
She was lithe and voluptuous with skin like molten gold, and she wore a strapless, short-cut dress of leopard hide, the garment embracing her like a second skin and accentuating her ample cleavage. Pale, red freckles dappled her cheeks, neck, and shoulders, and her thick, curled hair ended where her head met her shoulders and was of a striking, burnt orange shade like copper shining in the light of a bonfire. Her full lips were of a dark, bronze shade while her deep hazel eyes swirled with mystery. From her shoulders extended a pair of black, feathered wings, vaguely resembling the ceremonial cloaks worn by primal shamans on mortal worlds. The she-devil’s tail was long and sinewy, and it ended in a scorpion-like point.
“Lord Azazel,” the she-devil crooned as she strode forward. “I was thinking that you had forgotten about me.”
Azazel walked toward the she-devil. “I could never forget about you, Jahi.” The Lord of Addaduros paused for a moment to admire her beauty: the way she laid her hand on her hip; the way she tilted her face toward him; the way her plump, smiling lips parted just a little to reveal her pearly teeth.
The two had known each other since before Satan’s rebellion and the formation of the Thirteen Hells, in that halcyon time when they had enjoyed the radiant pleasures offered by the Perfectly Ordered Heaven of Qanûn; the Resplendent Vistas of Elysium; and the Primordial Paradise of Arcadia. They had also fought alongside each other on a panoply of battlefields as both angels and devils, against both demons and their former kin. A tear formed in Azazel’s uppermost right eye as the weight of the memories came down upon him. This was why Jahi dwelt here in Azazos, in the heart of Addaduros, rather than in Malphaxas with Geryon, under whom she had served as an angel.
“Good,” Jahi said, “It wouldn’t do if I were to find out that you preferred that hussy from Judecca over me.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “No, that wouldn’t do at all.”
Azazel smiled rakishly as he tilted his head in concession to Jahi. “Never. I love you above all others.” That was true. Azazel had spent far more time with Jahi than any of his other lovers. However, a little jealousy never hurt in keeping the passion alive, and Yaahaxa was good for when Azazel desired a slower encounter that moved at the pace of the River Styx.
What the archdevil wanted now was to feel as invigorated as he had in the earlier cycles of the Thirteen Hells, when it hadn’t felt as though control of Addaduros was slipping from his grasp. Moloch’s attempts to find Asmodeus had yielded the worst kind of result: a secret fortress which the Lord of Golgotha was known to have occupied recently but had since left behind. Furthermore, the joint force composed of the Fangs of Azazel and the Sanguine Specters had encountered horde after horde of demons as they delved ever deeper beneath the surface of Addaduros in search of Zeraga. More recently, the Fangs and the Specters had found a city occupied by swarms of mortal vermin and, strangely, were now laying siege to it alongside the very demons they had been slaughtering. The city’s defenses were thus far proving to be egregiously recalcitrant, and the prisoners were equally so. Even with the necromantic methods of divination employed by the Sanguine Specters, no information had been learned. Azazel did not know the name of the city, let alone any other details about it. He was only sure that Zeraga had been there because of the reported presence of Zamyyr Ôth, the Grim, who had served as equerry to the four hundred and twenty-seventh incarnation of the Doomfire. Already, Zamyyr had slain more than two score of the Fangs and Specters by himself, and if Bhaaz, Lord of Chelgorgos, the Hell from which the Specters hailed, decided to withdraw them as a result of the rising body count…
Azazel perished the paranoid train of thought as he sent his hellfire pearl floating up near the ceiling, closed the distance to Jahi, and pulled her into his embrace, meeting her waiting lips with his own. He kissed her deeply, fully, and passionately; his nostrils flared to take in her sweet musk. Jahi moaned as she wilted in Azazel’s embrace and kissed him back, laying her hand on his chest. Their kissing continued for long moments, their lips never parting and their wings unfurling and stretching outward to enshroud them. Azazel caressed Jahi’s back and sides while the she-devil curled her tail around the archdevil’s waist, lightly stroking him with the point. The cold, electric sensation had him moaning in pleasure. He was already hard.
“It’s good to know that you still like that,” Jahi purred. The hand on Azazel’s chest started flowing downward. The archdevil grunted with anticipation, and Jahi stopped, smiling seductively up at her lover and fluttering her eyelashes. “You’re going to have to do more than that if you want me to continue, Az, especially after leaving me alone for so long. Moloch is rather boorish and unimaginative, and the others I’ve taken in your city are even worse.”
Azazel’s mouth curled into a wide grin as a fiery glint entered his four eyes. It was hypocritical, but he would have been lying if he had said that he hadn’t felt a flash of anger at the image of Jahi entwined with other lovers, especially Moloch or any of the other minotaur-devils of Addaduros. Savagely, Azazel kissed Jahi as he pulled her leopard-print dress down. She gave a huff of mock indignance as the garment hit the floor, leaving her naked. “Really now?”
“Just let me finish,” Azazel rumbled.
“We haven’t even started yet, Az,” Jahi replied with a laugh.
Gently, Azazel lowered himself and Jahi until she was lying down and he was on his knees in front of her. The loam below was as soft as a down blanket. Azazel spread Jahi’s legs, lowered his head, and began to lick her vagina, the strokes of his tongue long and lazy. Jahi moaned to the rhythm Azazel set. She became wetter with each lick, and Azazel enjoyed the taste of her. It had been too long. Azazel sped up his pace, wanting to take in more and more of her. It was an act of will to not plunge himself inside her right then and there, especially because he knew that she would have gladly accepted him.
Azazel instead continued to lick, his tongue delving deeper inside his lover and leaving no part of her unexplored. He moved his hand upward to cup Jahi’s breast, splaying his fingers across her soft flesh. Jahi squealed and became wetter; Azazel shifted his thumb and began to toy with her nipple.
“Oh, Az,” Jahi groaned, her body tensing as she came.
“Yes?” Azazel asked with feigned ignorance as he rose, continuing to massage Jahi’s hard nipple.
“You…” was all Jahi could say.
Azazel rose as he cupped Jahi’s other breast, soon laying his erect penis on his chest.
“Oh yes,” Jahi said, “The minotaurs don’t even think to do that.”
That was all the spurring Azazel needed. He pressed Jahi’s breasts together and thrust, going in and out, his rhythm an aggressive staccato. Jahi nipped at the dark head of Azazel’s member whenever she could, kissing it with her lips; grazing it with her teeth; and licking it with her tongue, all while the tip of her tail danced across Azazel’s sides and stomach. The Lord of Addaduros threw up his head and brayed in pleasure, his member tensing and throbbing as he gripped his lover’s breasts tighter, reveling in their soft warmth. If he had let himself, he would have come right then and there.
Still, he could contain himself no longer. Azazel slid his penis out from between Jahi’s breasts as he moved back, and then he plunged himself inside her, entering that blissful paradise of sensual delight that they had enjoyed together so many times before. Azazel wasn’t sure how long had passed before he finally gave in to his building orgasm, but in those moments, he and Jahi cried out together. All was right with the multiverse; it was as though they were on one of their trysts in Malphaxas.
Once the tide of euphoria had subsided, Azazel pulled out, sat down, and pulled Jahi into his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. Her legs were trembling.
“I needed that,” she said.
“We both did,” Azazel replied.
“Oh?”
Before the archdevil could explain further, hellfire flashed in front of him and Jahi, and a kuryaazos appeared. The raven creature with arms and legs covered in red scales was shuddering in fear.
“What is it?” Azazel asked pointedly.
“As… As…” the creature stuttered, “As…mo… Asmodeus!” It punctuated the name with a caw.
Hearing the name had Azazel glaring with smoldering anger. “What about him?”
“Waiting.” The kuryaazos paused, then it nodded. “Waiting at the gates of Azaba’ar. Wanting to speak with you.”
“Well, this ought to be entertaining,” Azazel said dryly.
The kuryaazos’s only response was to blink repeatedly, as if it hadn’t comprehended the archdevil’s words.
“What do you mean, Azazel?” Jahi asked.
“The Lord of Golgotha has committed treachery against me,” the archdevil replied, “and now he wishes to parley.”
“If such is the case,” Jahi reasoned, running a finger down her lover’s chest, “why not send your legions to arrest him and take him to trial in the High Court of Pandemonium?”
Azazel paused, and then his mouth curled into a wicked grin, as though a candle had been lit in his mind. “I really do need to come to see you more often.”
“I certainly think so.” Jahi fluttered her lashes as she gave a giggle like that of a young girl trying to keep a secret.
Azazel turned his attention back to the kuryaazos. “Here is what you will do,” he began.
“Yes?” The messenger cocked its head in anticipation, and its wings started beating faster.
“First, you will go to Molobbax and seek out Moloch, and you will tell him two things.” Azazel paused again to let the kuryaazos’s dim intellect absorb the words. It was the price for having a species of creatures that could quickly take messages anywhere in the Thirteen Hells and beyond: they couldn’t be smart enough to actively aid in the teachery and intrigue that was the meat and gravy of Nyrrakhâ’s devils. That price was particularly irritating for Azazel right now because Molobbax, Moloch’s fortress, was easily within walking distance of Azazos, as it housed the Blood Wardens, the mightiest legion of Addaduros’s minotaur-devils. Gangs of slaves went between the two monolithic structures multiple times in a cycle. However, Azazel knew that if he were to leave his palace to deliver the message himself, the schemes of Addaduros’s nobles would multiply like hydra heads.
“The first thing you will tell Moloch,” Azazel continued, “is that I wish for him to pick a group of forty Blood Wardens and have them ready to teleport into my throne room at a moment’s notice.” Azazel paused. “The second is that I wish for him to meet me in my throne room. Return to me when this is done.”
“Yes, lord.” The kuryaazos nodded and disappeared in a flash of hellfire.
“Going to keep Asmodeus waiting for now?” Jahi asked.
Azazel nodded. “He is in my domain. He can await my pleasure.”
“He’ll be waiting awhile for that, certainly longer than it will take for the kuryaazos to return.”
“Then it is good that I have taught the little bastards not to interrupt me when I am occupied.” Azazel kissed Jahi’s neck.
“Really now?” she said, “Another round, Az?”
“If you can handle it,” Azazel replied.
“Oh, I can handle it alright.” Jahi pulled Azazel’s face down toward her own and planted a deep, passionate kiss on his lips as she reached between the archdevil’s legs.
*
All was in readiness. Azazel sat upon his throne of dragon bone, and his nine chained slaves and two Malphaxian lions stood at attention. Jahi stood at Azazel’s left side. Moloch was posted at the right.
The Duke of Molobbax was a true beast of a devil, making Azazel seem like one of Arcadia’s satyrs by comparison. Moloch stood twelve feet tall, and the minotaur-devil was covered in shaggy hair that was a lurid shade of burnt sienna. Black, bat-like wings framed his hulking body like a thick, quivering shadow. His crimson eyes bored into all they surveyed, and iron horns sprouted from the sides of his skull. His tail was also made of iron; the limb was segmented and undeniably draconic in form, and it ended in a tri-bladed tip engraved with pulsing red runes. A suit of baroque, iron full plate replete with harsh angles and stout spikes turned Moloch into a living fortress.
In his right hand, the Duke of Molobbax gripped the Fist of Azazel, a mighty feyrferreus battle-blade longer than most mortals were tall. Its guard, hilt, and pommel had been made from the bones of angels, and nine runes, each as large as Moloch’s fist, were evenly spaced across the sword’s putridly orange blade, glowing with the same color and intensity as the eyes of the fiend who wielded the weapon. Moloch’s left fist held Gorefeast, a double-headed, rune-engraved axe wrought from the iron of Dis like his horns, tail, and war-plate. The axe was similar in size to the Fist of Azazel, and Gorefeast’s dagger-length teeth had once belonged to a Fire-Bride of Pandemonium.
All in all, Azazel felt much safer with Moloch at his side.
“So,” the Lord of Addaduros said, turning his attention to Asmodeus, who was standing in the middle of the throne room, “the Lord of Golgotha comes before me wishing to parley.”
“That is the truth,” Asmodeus replied, “and I have come without an honor guard as a sign of good faith.”
Azazel brayed his laughter. “You speak of good faith when you have already committed treachery against me. How rich.”
“Of what treachery do you speak, Azazel? I have done nothing to interfere with your rule of Addaduros.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Azazel laughed again. “Did you think that I would not find the fortress you established in my realm without my permission? That alone is enough for me to declare war upon you.”
Or take him to trial before Satan. Jahi whispered to Azazel telepathically.
Asmodeus flashed an affable smile and tilted his head in concession of Azazel’s point. “I will admit that I was hoping that you had not found out about that, but since that kuurzanaal is already galloping, I have another thing to say on that matter.”
“I’ll hear it.” Azazel gestured for Asmodeus to continue. If the other archdevil was freely offering to admit further treacheries he had committed… The notion of annexing Golgotha flashed across Azazel’s mind.
“A trio of my Doombringers found Zeraga beneath the surface of your realm,” Asmodeus said, “Zeraga slaughtered two of them with ease. The third teleported back to me to report what had happened. Furthermore, I know what Zeraga is seeking. It will be a catastrophic for both of us, and all the Thirteen Hells, if he finds it.”
A moment of silence passed as Azazel pondered Asmodeus’s words. If what the Lord of Golgotha said about his minions having encountered the Doomfire was true, then that was more than could be said of Azazel’s own forces, even aided by the Sanguine Specters. But, if Azazel allowed Asmodeus to aid him, which was inevitably what the Lord of Golgotha was leading toward, and if Asmodeus found Zeraga first, Azazel knew well that would destroy all grounds for him taking Zeraga prisoner and, ultimately, having the Doomfire as his own champion. For tens of thousands of years, Azazel had allowed Asmodeus to store Hellscythe, vessel of the traitorous demon Apollyon, on Addaduros without so much as a single coin of the gold that mortals valued so much as recompense. There had only been the promise that Golgotha would aid Addaduros in any wars it found itself in. But, Addaduros could fight its own wars. The pact that Azazel had made with Asmodeus so long ago, in the cycles before the Luciferian Apostasy, had proven to be a foolish one.
Still, Azazel was curious. “What is Zeraga seeking?” He could feel the wry amusement emanating from Jahi as he posed the question. She already knew the answer. Azazel was fairly certain that he did, too, but he wanted to hear what Asmodeus would say.
“I will happily tell you,” Asmodeus replied, “but only if you allow my Doombringers to work with your Fangs and the Sanguine Specters from Chelgorgos in finding my champion.” As the archdevil spoke, Poisonteeth lifted itself up to lock its yellow gaze with Azazel’s four pale white eyes.
Though the Lord of Addaduros was immune to the hypnotism for which Asmodeus’s sentient tail was known, he hated the gesture simply for what it represented: coercion. “Zeraga Baal’khal seeks Ôx’xâ, the Horned Helmet of Desolation,” Azazel said flatly. “As I am sure you already know, the boundary between my realm and the Primordial Chaos-Void is precariously thin, no doubt due to that wretched helmet. You should have destroyed it the moment you learned of its creation.”
“Perhaps,” Asmodeus said, “but you allowed Ôx’xâ to be interred on Addaduros, and you continued to do so even after Charaezohar’en had broken free. If you had wanted to take the Horned Helmet for yourself, you could have.”
“Do not turn this back on me!” Azazel lurched forward and started to rise. “You were the one who lost control of that experiment you call a champion.”
“And I am willing to take responsibility for it.” Asmodeus’s voice turned stony. “The whole of the Doombringers’ First Company is ready to sail for Addaduros. It needs only your permission, Azazel.” Asmodeus paused for a moment before softly adding, “My friend.”
Azazel’s heart skipped a beat. He did not remember the last time anyone, let alone Asmodeus, had called him “friend.” Friends were a luxury that archdevils didn’t have. Or did they?
He is only trying to manipulate you. Jahi said.
Azazel wanted to believe his lover’s words, wanted to believe that this was merely a ploy on Asmodeus’s part for him to get his way, but as Azazel looked into the eyes of his fellow archdevil, he did not see the glint of pernicious intent.
He instead saw the softness of remorse, of yearning for the times when they had drank together, fought together, and whored together. Times that they hadn’t had in over an eon.
Azazel sighed, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “Fine. Send your Doombringers to aid my forces. I will let them know.”
“Thank you, Azazel.” Asmodeus smiled. “Together, we will end this once and for all, for the good of all Nyrrakhâ.”
Azazel gave no reply. He wasn’t sure what to think. He wasn’t sure what to feel. He merely watched as Asmodeus turned around and departed the throne room with his head held high, Poisonteeth looking back and swiveling its gaze between the members of Azazel’s court.
You’re making a terrible mistake. Jahi said. It’s not too late to arrest Asmodeus.
Azazel didn’t reply. He knew that he could arrest Asmodeus, and he would have been well within his rights to, but he couldn’t bring himself to do such a thing to his old friend, not after he had indeed come in good faith to aid in solving a problem plaguing Addaduros. Still, Azazel hoped that Jahi’s words didn’t prove true.
*
Zaryolah loved the sensation of hot blood flowing upon her body, upon every inch of her skin. The archdevil of Dis sighed contentedly as she allowed herself to sink deeper into her blood bath. She was soon up to her neck, and only the uppermost portions of her onyx-feathered wings were visible. Her muscles felt warm and airy as relief worked its way through her flesh. She was pregnant and had been for the past few months; her belly was swollen and heavy, her breasts were sore from engorgement, and her nipples were tender. The child would arrive soon.
The Lady of Dis didn’t know who the father of her latest progeny was, nor did she care. She had had so many lovers since then, using the carnal unions for her own pleasure and as a way to cement loyalty to her within certain devils, those who could actually pose a threat to her and might otherwise harbor thoughts of sedition. Zaryolah had also long ago discovered that pregnancy amplified her alluring glamor, especially as far as male devils were concerned. The opportunity to defile a mother-to-be always drove them wild even though Zaryolah had birthed thousands of children for Dis’s armies and would undoubtedly birth thousands more. Still, the reaction remained the same. In that regard, many of Zaryolah’s lovers were little better than the weak-willed mortals they shepherded into damnation. The archdevil chuckled at the thought as she ran her left hand through her long, thick, and luxurious blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders and breasts in winding curls that were almost perfect helixes.
Bronze constituted the majority of the chamber that Zaryolah was presently in. Opulent, gem-adorned reliefs of beautiful she-devils covered the walls, their poses at once elegant and war-like as they brought arrow and blade and hellfire to bear against the demonic hordes below. Resplendent in wrath and righteousness, the glory and fury of Nyrrakhâ captured perfectly, the grand works of art were almost angelic. Ornate feyrferreus sconces held hellfire torches that bathed the whole chamber in light and brought the devils of metal and gem one step closer to life.
To the right of the blood bath stood a trio of statues, each one resembling those in the reliefs but in three dimensions: she-devils clad in their panoplies of war and ready to do battle. They had been carved from the finest marble that Trahaxin, the sixth Hell, had to offer, having been a gift from the archdevil Mammon for one of the many times that Zaryolah had sent her forces to aid him. She would not have been surprised to learn that the Lord of Trahaxin lusted after her, either.
A series of ornate, bronze-and-ruby tables stood to the left of the blood bath. Upon them lay Zaryolah’s armor and weapons; they were as exquisite and opulent as the rest of the archdevil’s surroundings. Her breastplate, helmet, and pauldrons had been forged from bronze and worked with an angel feather motif, and trios of fist-sized rubies formed loose chevrons on the edges of the pauldrons, the upper section of the breastplate, and the crest of the helmet. Topazes filled in the rest of the trim upon the pauldrons, arrayed like legionnaires marching to war. Next to the armor pieces lay a long skirt of finely woven bronze scales, each engraved with a Nyrrakhân rune of warding. Last was the adamantine chainmail with links so fine that it appeared like black cloth, undulating midnight, rather than an underlayer constituted from some of the finest protection one could find in the Thirteen Hells.
Zaryolah’s sword was named Xazzaghar, the Sword of Thirteen Wraths. The adamantine weapon was half again as long as Zaryolah was tall, about twelve feet in length. Upon the blade were millions of minuscule serrations, as well as thirteen glowing, red runes containing enchantments of strength, wrath, and hellfire. Xazzaghar’s guard and pommel had been sharpened into spikes and set with rubies.
The Lady of Dis smiled and sighed as she gazed almost wistfully upon her panoply of war. Despite the sheer wealth and might contained within the armor and weapons, greater than the totality of what was possessed by many mortal worlds, Zaryolah was glad for the opportunity to shed them. Peace was a luxury that became less and less frequent the higher one climbed in Nyrrakhâ’s hierarchy. There were always scheming underlings waiting for the slightest mistake, the faintest lapse in strength, to bring down a superior and claim more power and glory for themselves. Zaryolah had more than her share of such devils to attend to.
War, on the other hand, was a constant in the Thirteen Hells, as constant as the rising suns on billions of mortal worlds. Even though Satan had forbidden open war between the archdevils except under specific circumstances, that did not stop the legions and warbands of each Hell from acting of their own accord and waging skirmishes, feuds, and vendettas. The logic behind that was that it ensured only the best devils remained to protect the Thirteen Hells from invasions, demonic or otherwise.
Recently, Zaryolah had heard rumors that the denizens of Ag’graaza had invaded Addaduros, but she wasn’t particularly concerned about it. Being the fifth Hell and therefore close to Nyrrakhâ’s center, Addaduros was one of the worst places to strike. Any attackers would soon find themselves surrounded by bloodthirsty devils. Still, Zaryolah would have been lying if she had said that the prospect of going to war again didn’t kindle at least a vague, inchoate sense of anticipation.
A burst of hellfire pulled the archdevil from her ruminations. Before her hovered a kuryaazos.
Zaryolah laid a finger on her lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Zer… Zer…” the messenger stuttered, “Zeraga!” It forced the name out with a squawk.
Zaryolah’s heart skipped a beat. That name was one she was intimately familiar with, for she was the Doomfire’s mother. She had coupled with Asmodeus in eons past and carried the first incarnation of Zeraga in her womb.
“What of him?” Zaryolah asked the kuryaazos, her voice austere and commanding as her hand fell from her mouth and down to her belly. The devil-child within stirred.
“Turned against Asmodeus, lady,” the kuryaazos said, “Seeking Ôx’xâ.”
Zaryolah kept the stony mask on her face by muscle memory; it didn’t do to show uncertainty to underlings, even these lowly messengers. Still, that Zeraga had rebelled against his father and was seeking the Horned Helmet of Desolation was dire news indeed. If Ôx’xâ still existed and Zeraga found it, it could spark a war on a scale not seen since the Luciferian Apostasy shortly after Nyrrakhâ’s formation.
“Who sent you to tell me this?” Zaryolah asked.
The kuryaazos’s answer sent a shudder down her spine. “Asmodeus.”
Truthfully, Zaryolah wasn’t sure what to make of it. She and Asmodeus weren’t enemies, but they certainly weren’t allies, either. They hadn’t spoken in thousands of years.
“Is that all you have to report?” Zaryolah asked.
“Yes, lady,” the kuryaazos replied.
“Then you are dismissed.”
The messenger disappeared in a flash of hellfire, leaving the Lady of Dis alone once more, and with a lot more to think about than she had before. The questions in her head multiplied like the scores of damned souls that arrived every hour. She silenced them with a deep breath. Perhaps she would be returning to the battlefield sooner than she had expected. Much sooner, and against her own son, no less.
A sad sigh slid out of her mouth. Peace was indeed a luxury in the Thirteen Hells.
The End
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