This is the sixteenth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The fifteenth chapter, Machinations, 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
No matter where Zeraga looked, he saw only the gnarled, senescent trees; the curtains of phosphorescent moss; and the rich, dark loam which constituted the forest of Ix-Karg-Nhar in the Primordial Chaos-Void of Ag’graaza. The Doomfire did not know how long he and his companions had been wandering through the forest. It could have been cycles. It could have been months. There was no way of telling; nothing seemed to change.
How is it that you do not know a way out of here? Aren’t you from this plane? Zeraga growled at Hellscythe, who had been eerily silent since entering this strange place.
If I knew a way out of here, don’t you think I would have told you by now? the weapon snapped back.
Indeed. Drahligar agreed, his tone dour. It’s just like the fall of the Crimson Dragons all over again; we have become lost in the realm of demons with no way out.
Perhaps, Churvômbhel conceded, but at least we do not have Ahriman actively hunting us like we did then. It’s entirely possible that the First Demon has no idea that we are here.
As if to contradict the kuurzanaal’s words, Zeraga suddenly and intensely became aware of a new presence watching him and his companions. He paused. Was this presence really new at all, or was it the same being who had imitated Asmodeus? The Doomfire lurched forward like a beast on the prowl and scanned his surroundings.
Do you sense that? Zeraga asked Hellscythe.
Yes. the weapon replied. Another soul approaches, and it is one from the Thirteen Hells.
A whistling sound pierced the air, and Churvômbhel reared up and neighed in pain as a spine sprouted from his right shoulder. Another followed. Drahligar lunged and breathed a torrent of hellfire that immolated the second spine, tiny bits of ash raining down. In that same moment, Zeraga conjured a hellfire spear and hurled it in the direction from which the spines had come.
The spear slammed into the crown of a tree and set it ablaze, the lurid flames unfurling and blossoming as they devoured the ample fuel all around, but no cries of pain issued forth. Conjuring another hellfire spear, Zeraga stepped forward in readiness to launch his next attack.
Where is the soul you sensed? the devil asked Hellscythe.
Before the weapon could reply, the burning tree and those around it started writhing and shifting. Branches entwined to become thick arms ending in vicious claws; spectral faces with green, phosphorescent eyes emerged; and roots turned into legs. Soon, the animated trees were rising and lumbering forward, dolorous creaking emanating through the air.
Zeraga’s arm snapped forward and sent his hellfire spear hurtling toward the already-ablaze animated tree as he gave a wordless, telepathic command that sent Maalik charging into battle with his fiery, orange battle-blade brandished. Churvômbhel and Drahligar darted closer to their lord and set themselves to receive the charge of the blazing elemental. It never came. Zeraga’s hellfire spear punched through the scowling, utterly inhuman visage that was his foe’s face, evaporating it amid an explosion. The arboreal giant fell to its knees before collapsing entirely, the consuming flames rising higher and higher, bathing the battlefield in effulgence brighter than a rising sun.
Another of the behemoth elementals, the wrath of Ix-Karg-Nhar made manifest, was already upon Zeraga; thick, dark green vines ending in grasping, claw-like roots streamed toward the devil. Churvômbhel took flight and breathed a torrent of hellfire upon the verdant onslaught while Drahligar charged. The vines crumbled to ashes in an instant. Drahligar closed the distance to the foe, and Zeraga was right behind, spreading his wings and taking flight.
I suppose I should have told you that it is a bad idea to attack the trees here. Hellscythe noted airily, its voice devoid of concern.
Are you able to feed upon their essence? Zeraga replied.
Oh yes. Every tree here has a soul, and as you can see, there are a great, great many of them.
Zeraga grinned and screamed, “Slaughter!” as he tugged on his bond with Hellscythe, demanding the blood-rage.
Hellscythe obliged; a crimson pall fell over Zeraga’s vision as unholy vigor surged through him. Clusters of red scales grew upon his now-enlarging body, covering much of his bare chest as his fangs elongated. He closed the distance to the arboreal elemental straight ahead and powered both Hellscythe and the black sword toward his foe. The baleful blades met their marks; slivers of bark and wood went flying as they tore into the elemental, and thick amber ichor oozed from the wounds, soon transmuted into the sanguine mist upon which Hellscythe fed. Drahligar’s hooves cannoned into the giant’s torso; Churvômbhel was right behind. Together, the two horses of shadow and flame sent the arboreal giant staggering back.
Zeraga moved to press his attack, but his body went rigid as vines from the surrounding elementals coiled around him. Howling in rage, the Doomfire cut into his bindings with Hellscythe and his black sword. Next came the fulmination of hellfire as the devil conjured a pair of axes. Carving, slicing, butchering, Zeraga freed himself. As the last vine fell away, he flew higher, his gaze panning about in appraisal of the situation.
Maalik had chopped his foe off at the knees, and he dodged the collapsed elemental’s flailing arms and darting vines as he continued to inflict wound after devastating wound. Churvômbhel and Drahligar had set the elemental they were fighting ablaze, and they made use of their magical flight to dodge and counterattack as they baptized their foe in more hellfire. The homunculus hovered around a nearby tree, seemingly watching.
Two more arboreal giants loomed ahead of Zeraga, tangles of vines shooting from their bodies as they lumbered forward. Zeraga outstretched his hands, and torrents of hellfire screamed forth as a sphere of snarling flames formed around him. Ashes rained all around. Below, the earth rumbled.
The forest offers more of itself to us. Hellscythe said.
Zeraga’s only response was a growl. The arboreal giants had nearly closed the distance, and their next vines slammed into the devil’s hellfire to no avail. It would soon be time to feed again. One more step…
“Slaughter!” Zeraga dismissed the hellfire sphere separating him from his foes and snapped his wings, sending himself hurtling toward the arboreal giant on his left. The elemental was already raising its arms to swat the devil out of the air, but Zeraga darted between the monolithic limbs to close the distance to his foe; Hellscythe and the black sword were soon carving vicious arcs through the air. The next moment saw them slicing into the arboreal giant’s face, sending chunks of bark, slivers of wood, and ropes of ichor flying every which way as red mist streamed into Hellscythe.
An image sent by the homunculus flashed through Zeraga’s mind before he could strike again. The arms of the arboreal giant behind him were descending, and more vines were streaking forth. Zeraga flew higher. A cacophony of thunderous slams and sharp cracks followed as the blows meant for the Doomfire slammed into his already-wounded foe. A downward glance granted Zeraga the sight of the arboreal giants tangled in each other’s vines; the devil’s mouth curled into a smile of savage delight. “Slaughter!” Like the wrathful hammer of a wrathful god, Zeraga fell upon the already-wounded giant.
The next moment saw the devil standing atop his foe, snarling with glee as he drove Hellscythe’s blade into its head, conjured another hellfire axe, and hurled it at the other arboreal giant. The explosion drowned out all other sounds as a pillar of infernal radiance manifested before Zeraga. As this happened, more and more unholy vigor flowed into him as Hellscythe drained the arboreal giant, turning its bark and moss chalky, colorless, and ashen as its body shriveled like fruit left too long under the sun. Soon, what little remained of the giant collapsed into a lifeless heap. Zeraga again took flight.
Searing, caustic pain snapped through the devil before he could attack his other foe; his wingbeats grew slower and weaker, and his armor became heavier. Still, he shunted himself closer to the arboreal giant, Hellscythe brandished. The mighty elemental was already powering a fist toward the Doomfire while vines streaked forth to entrap him. From one of Zeraga’s outstretched hands burst a gout of hellfire that erased the vines. More searing, caustic pain followed. Zeraga glanced down and found a trio of svelte, onyx spines protruding from his ribcage, having punched through his crimson scales to bite into the flesh beneath. Then, his wings locked up; he was falling.
More strength. Zeraga growled at Hellscythe. I need more.
You’ll have to get those spines out of you first. the weapon replied. They are from one of Malphaxas’s manticores; there are few creatures more venomous than them.
Snarling, Zeraga reached for the spines, but before he could wrap his fingers around them, another bout of burning pain, as though acid were coursing through his veins, lanced through the arm that held Hellscythe. A fourth spine now sprouted from that limb’s bicep; Zeraga’s hand snapped open and cast Hellscythe away against his will, the Doomfire seething with frustration and agony.
The pain wracking Zeraga’s body intensified as the crimson pall of the blood-rage abruptly gave way to stark lucidity; everything was too bright, too loud, and too close, as though the surrounding forest had suddenly shrunk. The spines embedded in Zeraga’s flesh sunk deeper as his body returned to normal size. He hit the ground and was immediately mired in mud that hadn’t been there before. He tried to heft himself free, tried to escape any way he could. It was no use.
Zeraga swiveled his gaze around. Churvômbhel, Drahligar, and Maalik were mired in the mud as surely as the Doomfire was, and humanoid creatures of earth and vine and moss had risen to encircle them. The fiery heaps which had once been some of the arboreal giants still burned, and the giant directly in front of Zeraga had its arms raised to strike. It didn’t follow though. The whole battle had stopped. The homunculus hovered over Zeraga, licking its eyes and staring expectantly at its creator.
From the trees beyond flew a winged, four-legged, bestial creature. She stopped when she had passed beyond the arboreal giants, hovering a good distance over Zeraga and his companions. She was the manticore Hellscythe had spoken of. Her body was that of a lioness with tawny fur while her long, sinewy, red-scaled tail bore many clusters of spines, and her wings were like those of a dragon, ebony in color with a dark purple membrane. Her face was that of a beautiful woman with pale skin, full cheeks, and plump, crimson lips, prominent eyebrows framing dark eyes swirling with intense emotion.
She gave a hollow laugh. “Never did I think that I would find the Doomfire in my forest. You are a long way from home.”
“Let me go,” Zeraga hissed back, his voice weakened by the exertion of the battle and the venom coursing through his flesh.
“Or what?” the manticore replied mordantly, her mouth curling into a smirk. “In case you haven’t noticed, Doomfire, you aren’t in a position to do much of anything, let alone threaten me. You, your kuurzanaals, and your glayruk draw breath because I allow you to. The forest does not continue its rage against you because I bade it to stop. Now, tell me truthfully what you are doing so far away from the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ.”
Zeraga didn’t immediately respond to the manticore, instead reaching out to Hellscythe. Kill her. Now. Zeraga grimaced as a fresh wave of pain surged through him.
Do you really think that that’s a good idea? Hellscythe replied. I certainly do want to drink her soul, yes, but she is the only one keeping this plane from turning against us entirely; she is not lying to you in that regard. What you see around us is but a fraction of what Ix-Karg-Nhar is capable of. Millions have perished here for far less than what you have done.
Then why did you not try to stop me earlier before all of this began?
Hellscythe laughed condescendingly. I knew better. You did not want to be stopped, and I wanted to feed. Only if I feed will I have the power to help you as you need me to.
And what if I had died? Then our quest for Ôx’xâ would have been for naught, and you would have had to start all over again.
Before Hellscythe could reply, Zeraga felt his bond with the homunculus tighten, bringing forth a memory from the abyss of his past lives.
*
Though Zeraga Baal’khal, the three hundred and thirty-third incarnation, stood alone, it was as though dozens, hundreds, of eyes were watching him. Everywhere the Doomfire looked, there stood the primordial trees of Ix-Karg-Nhar, wreathed in eldritch radiance. Carpets of phosphorescent moss, actinic green, hung from their branches and clung to their bark, rivaling the decadent tapestries found in the palaces of the Thirteen Hells; no two trees were alike in their finery. Each was a lord of the forest who had been old when so much of the rest of the multiverse had been young. Together, they were a tableau of sublime, brooding majesty.
And it made Zeraga bitter. He knew that his foe was here, somewhere, but without even the slightest landmark to go by, where was he to start looking? He didn’t even know the demon’s name. The creature had been a behemoth of hate and rage as was so common among the denizens of Ag’graaza, and that behemoth had slain Hekazia, the Fire-Bride of Pandemonium who had been gifted to Zeraga by Satan himself more than ten thousand years ago. Since then, she had fought at his side out of sheer respect for him, a truly rare thing to earn from one of the fabled and feared a’aggyri.
Zeraga lurched forward, glaring at the trees, his grief and rage building with each moment that there was no sign of his foe. He flexed his grip on Hellscythe.
I know what you are thinking, Zeraga. Hellscythe said. This is not the place to unleash a firestorm. Not here. Not now. There is far more forest than you have hellfire.
I will have my vengeance. Zeraga growled back, his rage now accentuated by indignation at Hellscythe’s attempt to hold him back. This is not just a crime against me, but against all the Thirteen Hells and Satan himself. The death of a Fire-Bride cannot go unpunished.
And it will not. The time for butchery will come; I am as eager to slay the demon as you. But, right now, we must be patient.
“No!” Zeraga howled the word at the top of his lungs, a primal cry of bereavement twisted into hate and rage. “I will burn this whole forest down if I must, and that demon will die! Hekazia will be avenged!” An explosion of hellfire punctuated Zeraga’s declaration as he conjured a pair of hellfire spears and hurled them at the tree ahead. A lungless roar reverberated through the forest as a tree that had stood for uncounted millennia went up in flames. And Zeraga hurled more hellfire spears, two, then four, then six, his arms becoming whirling blurs of flesh and flame. Soon, every tree he could see was ablaze; a wall of hellfire surrounded him, an inferno worthy of the Eternal Conflagration of Yrvoraak.
Suddenly, Zeraga’s whole body went rigid as excruciation gripped his chest like a vice. He glanced down and saw a sharp, wooden point with brambles wrapped it around it protruding from behind his breastplate, having skewered his heart. His lifeblood poured from the wound, a deluge of it running down his armor and flesh like a crimson waterfall. The pain faded as Zeraga grew weaker. Soon, he couldn’t keep himself standing. Everything became blurry, and his head became lighter than air. The brightness of the inferno faded, seeming to recede.
And then, the three hundred and thirty-third incarnation of Zeraga Baal’khal drew his last, tortured breath.
*
Zeraga’s throat went dry as his mind snapped back to reality, back to the very forest that had killed his past self.
“I’m not going to wait forever for you to answer me, Doomfire,” the manticore said, her voice thick with impatience. “I have already been merciful enough, certainly more than you deserve.”
Zeraga’s gaze snapped onto the manticore as his mind raced to recall the conversation. Before he could speak, Churvômbhel said, “We are trying to find our way back to the Thirteen Hells. A demon sent us here against our will.”
“Really now?” The manticore’s gaze turned toward the kuurzanaal. “That would imply that there are demons in the Thirteen Hells.”
Churvômbhel nodded. “Just so. There are a great many of them beneath the surface of Addaduros, though I understand well how you are not inclined to see that as your problem.”
“You are right. It isn’t my problem. My problem is that the lot of you, particularly the Doomfire here, were trying to burn down my territory. However, I will concede that it amuses me that the archdevils let their guard down enough for demons to infiltrate their domain again. Have they finally forgotten the horrors of the Luciferian Apostasy?”
The mention of that war kindled embers of familiarity within Zeraga. He knew that he had fought in that titanic conflict so long ago but could remember nothing else, as though he had woken from a dream that he now had no memory of.
“Let us just say that Azazel has not been the best in maintaining his boundaries,” Churvômbhel said, “and that flaw has become increasingly problematic as of late. That is part of the reason why we need to return to the Thirteen Hells. The other part is that there is an oath that we are honor-bound to fulfill.”
“You would speak to me of honor when you have come into my lair and set it ablaze?” The manticore barked a sardonic laugh. “Rich. If there is one thing in the multiverse that is absolutely true, it is that the Doomfire has no honor. He is Asmodeus’s butcher, nothing more.”
“No.” Zeraga didn’t, couldn’t, stop himself from snarling the word. “I have broken free of Asmodeus and slain his finest warriors. Never again will that bastard enslave me.”
“Is that so?” The manticore’s voice lowered, the hint of a growl entering, and her gaze became piercing, predatory, as it turned upon Zeraga. “If that is truly the case, oh mighty Doomfire, then perhaps you shouldn’t be getting yourself into situations that would give Asmodeus reason and need to reincarnate you.”
A nervous chuckle rolled out of Churvômbhel’s mouth, his eyes darting between Zeraga and the manticore. “That is the general idea, yes, and I assure you, I speak no lies when I tell you that we are indeed oathbound to return to the Thirteen Hells.”
“Then you should have no problem submitting to a simple test.” From the tree closest to Churvômbhel came a vine, slithering through the air like a piper-entranced serpent. A cluster of indigo-capped mushrooms sprouted from the end of the vine. The plant stopped a few inches from Churvômbhel’s face, and each mushroom puffed out a dark, blue-black cloud.
After a few moments, the manticore said, “Tell me the exact nature of your oath.”
Words spilled from Churvômbhel’s mouth like a coursing river: he revealed the city of Arkynathos beneath the surface of Addaduros; the demonic invasions that the city had been fighting off for centuries; and the bargain struck when Zeraga and Skûn, ruler of Arkynathos, agreed that their foe was the same.
Zeraga watched the manticore’s expression as Churvômbhel spoke, noting that it softened. The devil was also glad that his kuurzanaal did not reveal any information about Ôx’xâ.
Oh, that is surely next. Hellscythe said. This manticore has lived as long as some devils and is therefore the exact opposite of a fool. I can sense it.
As if on cue, the manticore asked, “And you have found the root of these demonic incursions into Addaduros?”
Churvômbhel nodded and said, “Ôx’xâ, the Horned Helmet of Desolation.” He then spoke in great detail about the cathedral, Zeraga’s assassination, and the horrors within the cathedral proper, ending with the arrival in Ix-Karg-Nhar.
Silence lingered in the air once Churvômbhel stopped speaking as the manticore pondered what she had been told. Zeraga struggled to contain his frustration at how everything he was fighting for had just been revealed down to the smallest detail; he wanted nothing more than to slaughter the manticore and feed her soul to Hellscythe.
The manticore gave her verdict. “It is clear that Charaezohar’en is trying to break free again, and this cannot be allowed to happen, though I cannot say that the Horned Helmet sitting upon the Doomfire’s head will be a better outcome. That decision is beyond my hands.
“Therefore, you all will accompany me to my home. It is a city known as the Sanctuary of the Reborn, and the High Priestess will decide your fate. I will also warn you now, Doomfire, since you are in the habit of wanton destruction: attempt such a thing and both your life and those of your companions will be forfeit. Understood?”
Zeraga nodded because he had no other choice. His frustration smoldered hotter.
We will have our vengeance; I assure you. Hellscythe whispered, stoking Zeraga’s hatred. Once Ôx’xâ sits upon your head, you will never have to hold back your powers, no matter where in the multiverse we go.
Again, Zeraga nodded.
A thick, wet, slurping sound filled the air as the mud in which Zeraga and his companions were mired became solid ground, pushing them up onto the suddenly reformed forest floor. Still weak from the manticore’s poison, Zeraga tore the spines free and staggered over to Hellscythe. He bent over and picked up the weapon, his movements jerking and jagged like a strung-up puppet.
Restore me. Zeraga said to Hellscythe as he rose.
In an instant, new vigor coursed through the devil, banishing the lingering effects of the manticore’s poison. The homunculus then hovered over to Zeraga’s side. Churvômbhel, Drahligar, and Maalik weren’t far behind.
I am sorry for revealing so much, my lord. Churvômbhel said. I had no choice; the drug was too strong.
Zeraga’s first instinct was rage, rage that cooled as he saw the legitimate remorse in Churvômbhel’s eyes. Zeraga knew that if he lashed out at the kuurzanaal, both he and Drahligar would be lost, and along with it, Zeraga’s strongest connections to his past life as Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons. The infernal horses were also his key back to Arkynathos.
And, the Doomfire would have been lying if he had said that he didn’t have growing fondness for Churvômbhel and Drahligar. The two served him loyally without question, and Churvômbhel, especially, had already told him so much about the past, never trying to mislead him.
It is as you say. Zeraga said to Churvômbhel. The devil’s voice had a softness that surprised even himself. You had no choice. Turning his attention toward the manticore, Zeraga said, “Lead us to this ‘Sanctuary of the Reborn’ of which you speak.”
“Remember,” the manticore replied pointedly, “no violence.” She turned around and flew away.
The arboreal giants and other elementals of Ix-Karg-Nhar followed her, a great tide of rumbling earth, creaking wood, and glowing moss that swept Zeraga and his companions up and pulled them along.
Have you ever heard of this place we are going to? Zeraga asked Hellscythe.
Never. the weapon replied. Even before I was confined to this form, I rarely came to this forest. It is much too peaceful here.
Noted. For an instant, Zeraga considered beginning the battle anew. All that stopped him was remembering what had happened to the three hundred and thirty-third incarnation.
*
Eventually, the forest of Ix-Karg-Nhar parted to reveal a large glade, as though a patch of rolling plains from a different, less conflict-riddled place had been transplanted into the Primordial Chaos-Void. At the center of the glade stood a group of enormous trees that made the arboreal giants seem like saplings. Thirteen of these trees were immediately visible, and bridges of stone, vine, and fungus wove a web between them. More structures, wrought in a similar manner as the bridges, clung to the sides of the trees like burls.
The procession consisting of the manticore; the elementals of Ix-Karg-Nhar; and Zeraga and his companions stopped at the beginning of a wide stone road that passed between and beyond the two frontmost trees of the living city ahead, gleaming in the actinic, green phosphorescence of the native mosses. From behind the city came a throng of humanoids. Half shambling and half walking, it was immediately apparent that they were not alive in the traditional sense. Their skin and flesh were gray, black, and blue with death, and patches of moss and fungus had rooted themselves upon the moribund creatures, in some cases enshrouding the decayed limbs entirely. Their eyes glowed green, a shade duller than the ambient light all around; those eyes gazed upon the new arrivals intelligently, appraisingly. Many of the undead were clad in immaculate silver armor that took on the color of the ambient light, and weapons were strapped to their belts.
Descending, the manticore landed between the front of her own procession and the approaching undead. One of the undead came forth, ahead of the others. He was as tall as Zeraga owing to his lower half being four legged and made entirely out of fungus, vaguely resembling a wolf. He moved with a regal gait. His silver armor was decorated with swirling root-and-moss motifs studded with dazzling emeralds, and he gripped a pike that was two heads taller than he was.
The centaur-like undead bowed low before the manticore. “Lady Saeryn, it is a pleasure to see you again. Who are these others?” The undead’s voice, though rasping, was as regal and articulate as his gait, a verbal pavane.
“The Doomfire and his minions have committed crimes against our Sanctuary,” Saeryn replied, “and I have brought them here to plead their case before High Priestess Kassiarda. They wish to return to the Thirteen Hells in search of Ôx’xâ, the Horned Helmet of Desolation.”
“Better to execute them and be done with it, if you ask me. Then, their corpses will nourish our fair city. Fewer punishments would be more fitting.”
Saeryn gave a wry chuckle. “Your devotion to the Sanctuary is nigh-unmatched, Grimjaw, as is your loyalty. However, you know as well as I do that the High Priestess wishes to make such judgments herself.”
“Yes, yes,” Grimjaw conceded, “My soldiers and I will escort this cur to the High Priestess.”
“Thank you, Grimjaw.” Saeryn turned around and took flight. Her gaze then fell upon Zeraga and his companions. “You will follow Grimjaw and his cohorts peacefully into the Sanctuary. Know that if you give him any cause to use his pike, he will not be nearly as merciful as me.”
Zeraga met Saeryn’s gaze and said nothing. It was all he could do to not lash out in defiance of the chains that had been heaped upon him; he clung to what Hellscythe had said: We will have our vengeance.
A chorus of creaking wood and rumbling earth reverberated through the air as the arboreal giants and other elementals departed, followed by Saeryn. Grimjaw and his soldiers closed the distance to Zeraga and his companions, the centaur-like undead stopping perhaps a foot away from the devil and meeting him eye-to-eye.
“Follow me,” Grimjaw commanded.
“Then lead,” Zeraga hissed back.
Grimjaw held Zeraga’s gaze for a few more moments before finally gesturing to his soldiers and turning around. Zeraga and his companions followed the undead through the threshold ahead.
Beyond stood copses of trees, fully grown but seeming like sproutlings compared to the behemoths that served as the Sanctuary’s foundation. Fields of rich loam lay between the clusters of trees, and mushrooms and other fungi took shelter in the nourishing shadows. Fungus-augmented undead, much like Grimjaw and his cohorts but bereft of armor, tended each field, farming tools taking the place of weapons. As Zeraga looked upon the cultivation all around, what surprised him the most was the way the undead went about their tasks: their movements were measured and attentive, and their rotting faces wore serene smiles. No slaves were these, as would have been the case in the Thirteen Hells or other parts of Ag’graaza.
Zeraga wanted to be angry, but the only emotion that came forth was melancholy. These undead moved with a vitality that ordinarily only belonged to the living, acting as though war were an alien concept, as though they didn’t know what a sword was. Here was peace in the Primordial Chaos-Void. Not so long ago, in the bowels of Charaezohar’en’s aberrant cathedral, Zeraga had been offered such peace in Arcadia by a fey named Nightshade. And he had refused, believing that such a thing could never be his, and he had killed Nightshade for offering. Zeraga frowned. He had been certain that Asmodeus would find a way to follow him no matter where he went. But now, after Saeryn had summoned the might of Ix-Karg-Nhar to vanquish him and his companions… Was peace really so far out of reach? Could Nightshade really have helped him?
It is not in your nature to feel remorse, Zeraga. Hellscythe said. The fey was only trying to exploit you for her own gain as is the manner of their kind. Besides, do you really think that you would be allowed to live here after what you have already done? You were the one who started the fires.
Zeraga didn’t reply. He knew that Hellscythe was right. He had been created for one purpose, war, and there was no use in denying it. Hundreds of past lives had proven a simple fact: wherever Zeraga Baal’khal walked, war followed. And, even if it were as simple as deciding that he was no longer going to spend his life in eternal conflict, what of curing the affliction brought upon him by the unchecked power of the Eternal Darkness? The taint ate at him even now; it would remain even if he relinquished the black sword. And curing it would surely bring more conflict, right? As Zeraga continued to look around at all of the undead, he wasn’t so sure. Could the same fungus that brought them vitality, seemingly reversing death, be used to cure him, too? A kernel of hope formed within Zeraga. As mundane as their duties were, the devil could see all too clearly that the undead knew a happiness here and now that he had only in known in what few, all too brief memories he had of Sha’eryzhura.
He had no choice but to push the feelings aside. He was only going in circles, confusing himself more with each pointless cycle. A small, weary groan slid out of his mouth as he forced himself to focus on what was directly ahead.
The path upon which Grimjaw and his soldiers led Zeraga and his companions integrated into a large web that connected the Sanctuary’s fungus farms. Zeraga tried to keep track of which turns were taken as he unwillingly delved deeper into the city, but it was no use; he could make no sense of the labyrinth. Eventually, the fungus farms yielded to tightly clustered copses. Upon and between them were built stone buildings and staircases that linked the roads below to the bridges above. Undead went about on all manner of business: artisans practiced their crafts; goods were traded and coin was exchanged; lively, if hoarse, chatter bubbled in the air. Those who were closest to Grimjaw’s procession made way; many of the Sanctuary’s citizens bowed and cheerfully greeted the morose undead warrior.
Zeraga’s sadness grew as he witnessed it all. He had had that same respect, reverence, and camaraderie shown to him by his children when he had been Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons. Zamyyr was proof of that; he had followed the four hundred and twenty-seventh incarnation of Zeraga into the depths of Ag’graaza, and he remained loyal to Zeraga even now, as he waited back in Arkynathos for the Doomfire’s return. Next to Zeraga, Churvômbhel and Drahligar walked with a regal gait, holding their heads high, sparks flying from their fiery hooves each time they struck the stone beneath, like flint striking steel. They were proud to be at Zeraga’s side, and that brought a small smile to his face. It also reminded him of why he had to return to Arkynathos. He couldn’t renege on his oath. He couldn’t abandon Zamyyr.
And you can’t leave Asmodeus’s crimes against us unpunished. Hellscythe said.
Zeraga’s only response was a nod. Even if he were able to find a place in the multiverse where Asmodeus couldn’t follow, leaving the archdevil alive meant leaving his previous incarnation and all of his children unavenged, a display of cowardice in its worst form. With renewed purpose, Zeraga continued to follow Grimjaw. From the homunculus came a memory.
*
Zeraga Baal’khal, Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons, sat upon his throne in the great hall of Zehtlkha’an, the bastion of the legion, not far from Asmodeus’s palace. Rows of banners telling of the legion’s greatest victories hung from the dark stone walls in the dozens, arranged in serried ranks. Before Zeraga, spanning from the edge of his dais to the double doors at the other end of the hall, stood a phalanx consisting of the praetorians of the Crimson Dragons, each clad in armor of bronze, gold, feyrferreus, and ruby, decorated with motifs of dragons and flames. These devils, these heroes of Golgotha, were the best that the Crimson Dragons legion had to offer.
“My children,” Zeraga said, outstretching his uppermost arms toward them, “it is a joy and an honor to have you all gathered here again.” He paused for a moment to take in the sight of them, his sons and daughters. “No Legion Master in all the Thirteen Hells is more blessed than I. It is because of your unmatched valor that Mephistopheles’s forces on the Forsaken Slaughterfields of Tartarus have been crippled, and neither Belial nor Bhaaz have moved to aid him further; the so-called Mephistophelian League crumbles!” Zeraga triumphantly punched a fist into the air.
“However,” the Doomfire continued, “our work is not yet done. Lord Asmodeus has informed me that Mephistopheles has sent his forces to the Eternal Conflagration of Yrvoraak in hopes of establishing new footholds and alliances. Who among my children will follow me as I go forth to crush him once more?”
In unison, all of the Crimson Dragons in the hall raised their fists and declared, “We will, father!”
The swell of the voices, the devotion of his children, brought a tear to Zeraga’s eye. He didn’t wipe it away.
“To arms then, my Crimson Dragons,” Zeraga said, “For the Legion and Asmodeus!”
“For the Legion and Asmodeus!” the Crimson Dragons called back.
Zeraga’s smile widened, and his body thrummed with euphoria. He couldn’t wait to lead his children to war again.
*
“This is the temple of High Priestess Kassiarda,” Grimjaw intoned, his austere voice slashing through the last vestiges of Zeraga’s flashback. “This is where you and your ilk will stand trial for your crimes against the Sanctuary of the Reborn.”
The procession now stood on the banks of a perfectly still lake, the water appearing like green glass under the perpetual phosphorescence of the moss all around. At the center of the lake was an island, and upon the island stood the temple, an enormous stone structure with a dome-like top that had swirling tree-and-root patterns carved upon it, the decorations of Grimjaw’s armor wrought large. From out of the domed roof rose a tree larger than any other in the Sanctuary. Its trunk was as thick as a dragon’s torso; its branches extended past the edges of the lake; its curtains of glowing moss lavished light upon the temple, island, lake, and everything else it could touch. Zeraga saw everything in varying shades of green, verdant, intense, actinic, dancing with each other and the shadows cast by the branches.
“If I may be so bold, Grimjaw,” Churvômbhel said, “I do not recall Lady Saeryn telling you the crimes of which my lord, myself, and my companions have been accused, only that we wish to return to Nyrrakhâ.”
“We have our ways,” Grimjaw grunted back.
From behind the temple came a trio of wooden skiffs without any crew aboard, gliding upon the water seemingly of their own volition. As their prows turned to face the procession, the truth was revealed: the upper half of one of the Sanctuary’s citizens had been joined to the front of each vessel with webs of fungus, and they were glad in ceremonial armor not unlike Grimjaw’s. The moribund ferrymen also held large poles by which they could propel and guide the skiffs.
The skiffs closed the distance to the procession, turning so that their port sides were facing outward as they arrived.
“Board the skiffs,” Grimjaw said to Zeraga and his companions. “Then, you will be taken to the temple.”
Zeraga didn’t reply to the undead soldier, instead reaching out telepathically to his companions. Maalik, you will follow me and my homunculus. Churvômbhel, you take the left skiff. Drahligar, you take the right.
Yes, lord. the kuurzanaals replied.
Zeraga and his companions boarded the skiffs, the boats creaking and swaying in the water. The undead affixed to the prows gave no indication that they had noticed the boarding save that they began turning the boats around and propelling them toward the temple ahead, carrying out their duty emotionlessly, mechanically. Mindlessly?
A shudder ran down Zeraga’s spine. Every other undead he had seen in the Sanctuary had been full of life and vigor, recipients of the cornucopia that was the Sanctuary of the Reborn. What made these skiff-bound ones different? Had they, too, committed crimes against the Sanctuary? Was this their punishment? In that moment, Zeraga decided that he would rather die than be condemned to that existence of colorless servitude. At least if he died, he would be reborn in Golgotha and have a chance of recovering his memories.
The skiffs stopped on the island shore. Zeraga and his companions disembarked and proceeded to the front of the temple. Upon the door, which was half again as tall as Zeraga, was engraved an enchanting relief of knotwork and autumn leaves accented with flawless, multifaceted emeralds that scintillated in the ambient radiance. Silently, the door yawned open, swinging out toward the new arrivals; they stepped back to make way. Once the door had stopped, Zeraga and his companions passed through the threshold, the Doomfire and Maalik at the front with the homunculus hovering behind while Churvômbhel and Drahligar flanked the three, one dark horse on either side.
Beyond lay a large, circular hall that had much more in common with a deep forest glade than the inside of a temple. Copses lined the edges, concealing most of the stone walls, while the canopy formed by the branches nearly blotted out the ceiling. Curtains of glowing moss took the place of torches. At the center lay a pond that was a miniature version of the lake outside, and around the pond stood four humanoid tree creatures, smaller versions of the arboreal giants but still much larger than Zeraga and his companions. Furthermore, the elementals wore battle-plate made from stone, complete with helmets that had a singular, sword-length spike protruding from the forehead like a unicorn’s horn. In their mighty fists of gnarled wood, the elementals wielded axes and shields made from the same stone as their battle-plate.
At the back edge of the pool stood a throne made from living trees wreathed in moss and leaves. Upon the throne sat a thin, pale woman with crimson eyes and long, straight, blonde hair, heavily resembling the vampires of mortal legend. She wore a sage green gown trimmed in navy blue lace. Upon her head sat a crown of stone studded with emeralds; an iridescent pearl sat atop the crown.
Zeraga and his companions stopped at the edge of the pool, the temple door closed silently behind them, and High Priestess Kassiarda rose from her throne. Levitating, she approached the new arrivals, stopping a few feet in front of them.
“I have seen the crimes you have committed against my Sanctuary and the forest of Ix-Karg-Nhar, Doomfire.” Kassiarda’s voice was stern and had an eerie, mellifluous quality, but it lacked any sign of malevolence. “I heard the trees crying out in pain as you set them ablaze. I know also that you seek to return to the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ in search of Ôx’xâ, the Horned Helmet of Desolation.” She paused, her mouth curling into a frown. “Why do you insist on making war wherever you go?”
Zeraga’s gaze darted between the four guardians before settling on Kassiarda. All that could be read in her expression was disappointment, like that of a mother scolding her child, and her demand for an explanation. Therefore, Zeraga told his truth. “I cannot rest until I have slain Asmodeus. It is the only way I can break his enslavement of me.”
“Cannot rest,” Kassiarda pressed, “or will not?”
“Asmodeus’s legions hunt me even now, and I need all the strength I can get to defeat them.”
Kassiarda gave a sad smile. “And that required you to savage my peaceful forest with your hellfire?”
“Your manticore attacked me first.” Zeraga’s voice lowered, starting into a growl.
Kassiarda gave a nod of concession. “I’ll grant you that, though it was your kuurzanaal who was attacked, not you.”
“Both of my kuurzanaals are loyal legionnaires of the Crimson Dragons. To attack one of them is to attack me.”
Did you hear that, Drahligar? Churvômbhel’s voice thrummed with admiration. Lord Zeraga called us legionnaires of the Crimson Dragons.
Yes, yes. Drahligar gave a dry, almost paternal, chuckle. I heard.
“Be that as it may,” Kassiarda said to Zeraga, “Neither Asmodeus nor his forces were in this region of Ix-Karg-Nhar then, nor are they now. I would have known if they were.”
“The same way you knew I was guilty before I set foot in your temple?” Zeraga flexed his grip on Hellscythe. Would it really be so hard a thing to kill his accuser and make his escape?
Kassiarda’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “Keep the malice from your heart, Doomfire. You have already been told that we will not suffer your violence here.”
“Yes, I know.” Zeraga’s mouth curled into a savage, sardonic grin. “Already, it has been proven that the might of your Sanctuary is greater than that of my companions and I. But, what about when Asmodeus finds you? I’m sure that he would enjoy the sight of your head on Grimjaw’s pike.”
Kassiarda waved her hand dismissively. “I do not fear any of the rulers of the Thirteen Hells. They cannot find this place no matter how hard they try; your legion’s ill-fated bid to slay Ahriman was proof enough of that. I’ll also have you know that one of those same Crimson Dragons dwells here in my Sanctuary. He came here after that ‘crusade’ and has stayed here ever since, thousands of years later. Why did Asmodeus not come looking for him, if he even tried?”
“Asmodeus did not care for my legion.” Zeraga scowled. “That he sent us to Ag’graaza was proof enough of that. Furthermore, he sees me only as a tool. That I live for a four hundred and twenty-eighth time is proof enough of that.”
“Which brings me back to my initial question: why do you insist on making war everywhere you go? You only further Asmodeus’s will by doing so. Many of your enemies, especially the denizens of this plane, are also Asmodeus’s enemies, and you make it easier for him to follow you with each battle. He need only follow the trail of destruction you leave in your wake.”
Zeraga was about to lurch forward and start snarling about how he didn’t serve Asmodeus, that he hated the Lord of Golgotha with every fiber of his being, but he stopped himself. Kassiarda’s logic was sound. Zeraga paused. Kassiarda was right. Zeraga let out a ragged sigh. “Is it not better that Asmodeus finds me sooner rather than later so that we can have our final confrontation?”
Only if you win, Hellscythe whispered, and you cannot hope to win until Ôx’xâ sits upon your head.
If Kassiarda heard what Hellscythe had said, she gave no sign of it. “Only you can answer that question, Doomfire. However, if contact with Asmodeus is truly what you desire, I can arrange that.”
Zeraga’s heart skipped a beat. “You lie!” The words shot out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“I have many sorcerous powers at my command. It would be unwise of you to doubt them.”
Zeraga took a deep breath; he desperately wanted to fight but knew that he wouldn’t win, not when the very temple in which he stood would turn upon him, saying nothing of Kassiarda and her guardians. As Zeraga exhaled, he said, “I wish only to return to the Thirteen Hells so that I can finish my quest and fulfill my oath. If you are capable of contacting Asmodeus, then what I ask should surely also be within your power.”
“It is.” Kassiarda nodded. “But, it is not that simple. You have admitted guilt, and, furthermore, you know where the Sanctuary is.”
Zeraga gave a sardonic laugh. “So you’re going to keep me prisoner here for all eternity like you have one of my sons?”
“Your son came here willingly. He has chosen a life of peace.”
Zeraga laughed again. “A devil with my blood running through his veins has chosen a life of peace in one of the most war-torn planes in the multiverse. Rich.”
“The only war you have seen since entering my territory is that which you and your ilk brought yourselves, Doomfire. I am well within my rights to punish you as I see fit for that; each moment I do not is mercy on my part. You would do well to remember that.”
“Fine.” Zeraga’s expression hardened. “What do you want from me?”
Kassiarda frowned, and her eyes glistened with a deep sadness. “Isn’t that obvious, Zeraga? I want you to lay down your arms and stay here in the Sanctuary of the Reborn where so many of the multiverse’s outcasts have found a new life of peace, joy, and harmony. You do not need to fight anymore. Asmodeus will not find you here.”
“I want to believe that.” Zeraga’s voice softened. A void formed in his chest as his heart grew heavier. “More than anything, I want to believe that, but Asmodeus is not alone in his hunt. He has twelve other archdevils, all the Thirteen Hells, to aid him.”
“And in the twenty thousand years that have passed since I founded the Sanctuary of the Reborn, none of those thirteen archdevils have even come close to finding it. You know as well as I do that they will not come to this plane unless they absolutely must.”
“The cathedral of Charaezohar’en proves otherwise; it links Ag’graaza and Nyrrakhâ. I must destroy it.”
“Why?” Kassiarda’s voice remained soft, but it took on a piercing undertone. “According to what you say, all the Thirteen Hells hunt you to aid Asmodeus in enslaving you, and you desire to return so that you can perform a service for them by destroying a bastion filled with their worst enemies. That makes no sense.”
“I swore an oath to the city of Arkynathos,” Zeraga replied, “and my best son, Zamyyr, has remained behind to continue fighting for that city. I will not abandon him, not when he waited so long for my return.”
Kassiarda’s mouth curled into a dry smile. “It is good to see that you have some semblance of honor and that you are not entirely motivated by bloodshed. Let us suppose, then, that you do return to the Thirteen Hells, reunite with this Crimson Dragon of which you speak, claim Ôx’xâ, and slay Asmodeus. What of Nyrrakhâ’s other archdevils? They will surely unite against you.”
“And I will kill them all if I must.”
Kassiarda laughed. “You truly believe that you can accomplish such a thing? You truly believe that you can kill Satan, who rebelled against all of Heaven and won?”
“Better than I die trying to do that than remain here in this prison. You are trying to trap me as surely as Asmodeus; you cannot say that I would not be a powerful addition to your forces.”
“Yes, Doomfire, you are a mighty warrior. That has never been called into question. Indeed, that is a large part of why you are here speaking with me now.” Kassiarda sighed. “But, to say that I desire you solely, or even mostly, for that is false, though it is clear that you will not believe otherwise. In your desire to remain free of Asmodeus and the Thirteen Hells, you have become enslaved by a love for your own ability to make war. That is why my offer of peace, of healing, has fallen on deaf ears. However, I will still give you one last chance. I will take you to speak with Irzaval, the Crimson Dragon who resides here, and the son shall decide the fate of the father.”
Zeraga immediately recognized the name. Irzaval had been one of the Crimsonblessed, possessed of a rage not unlike Zeraga’s own, and as such, that Crimson Dragon had been on the frontlines of the legion’s final crusade to Ag’graaza. “I will gladly speak with my son,” Zeraga said.
“Come with me.” Kassiarda outstretched her hand toward the temple door. It swung open soundlessly as the High Priestess began floating toward the threshold. Zeraga and his companions followed.
Soon, they were at the edge of the island, and the skiffs were already arrayed in waiting, their permanent, moribund crew as silent as ever. Kassiarda, Zeraga, and Zeraga’s companions boarded. The skiffs took them across the lake where they disembarked, at which point Kassiarda led her charges through the green-lit vault of tress, moss, fungus, and stone that was the Sanctuary of the Reborn.
The group stopped at the edge of a gloom-shrouded glade ringed by thin trees that looked like haunting specters. Each patch of glowing moss, what little there was here, was like a will-o’-the-wisp, eerily adding to the gloom rather than taking away from it. At the center of the glade stood a large, dome-like stone hut. Age had etched the structure with webs of cracks and other erosion, and patches of moss, some glowing and others not, grew upon the hut. Around the hut, silent sentinels in the eldritch dark, stood mushrooms of many different colors and sizes, some smaller than a gold coin while others were larger than a mortal man.
“Irzaval, I have brought Zeraga Baal’khal, the Doomfire. He wishes to speak with you.” Though Kassiarda projected her voice, it remained soft, beckoning but not commanding.
A moment of silence passed. Then, the door of the hut opened; a devil emerged. He was as tall and muscular as Zeraga, and his bronze skin was almost metallic. His angular, patrician features were reminiscent of the Doomfire, though he had a saturnine countenance and bearing. Large, ram-like horns crowned Irzaval’s head while straight black hair cascaded down his shoulders. Segmented spider legs framed his bat-like wings, and his legs ended in cloven hooves, telling of how he had been a glayruk before becoming a devil. Irzaval’s sinewy tail ended in a blade-like point. All that was missing to complete the image of a Crimson Dragon was the radiant armor of shining metal and dazzling ruby. Instead, Irzaval wore dark leathers devoid of even the slightest ornamentation.
The devil approached at a slow, perhaps funereal, pace, stopping a few feet away from Kassiarda. His gaze panned between the High Priestess and those who accompanied her. Another moment of silence passed.
Zeraga indeed recognized the devil who stood before him, but Irzaval bore none of the battle lust for which the Crimsonblessed were known. He did not even carry a weapon. The Sanctuary had softened him.
“I knew that this day would come,” Irzaval said, his voice barely louder than a whisper, a solemn acceptance of what had happened. “I will not fight in another one of your wars, Zeraga. I have no desire to leave this place.”
Indignance surged through Zeraga. Who was this devil, his son, to disobey him? Still, Zeraga remained sanguine. “I have found your brother Zamyyr.”
“Zamyyr is not my brother. You are not my father. All of that stopped being true when you allowed Asmodeus to send us to Ag’graaza.”
Zeraga gestured to the surrounding glade. “And here in Ag’graaza you remain while I fight to take vengeance on Asmodeus for that ill-fated crusade.”
“If vengeance on Asmodeus is what you seek, then go forth and seek it. As I have said, I will remain here.”
“Why?” Zeraga stepped closer to Irzaval and held out one of his hands. “Does the thought of reforming our legion not excite you? Already, the foundation is being set.”
“Yes,” Churvômbhel added, “Already, we have secured the aid of a city beneath the surface of Addaduros.”
“Tell me,” Irzaval said, focusing intently upon Zeraga, “are you the four hundred and twenty-seventh incarnation, the true Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons, or are you the four hundred and twenty-eighth, or even the four hundred and twenty-ninth, and therefore an impostor?”
“I am no impostor,” Zeraga snapped, “Zamyyr told me of what happened at Ag’graaza; I relived my own death at Ahriman’s blade. I know what was lost.”
“Then you should know that there is no regaining it. The legion is destroyed.”
“Doomfire,” Kassiarda said, “tell Irzaval the method by which you seek to slay Asmodeus.”
Zeraga fought the urge to glare at Kassiarda. She was trying to lessen the chance of Irzaval’s agreement. “I know where Ôx’xâ is,” the Doomfire said, “I will reclaim it.”
Irzaval scowled. “Then you are even more misguided than I thought, and, furthermore, you have proven that you are an impostor. You have forgotten what happened at Cybele.”
That was a fun one. Hellscythe whispered. Many souls flowed into my blade during that campaign.
“I will speak plainly with you, Irzaval,” Zeraga said, “My companions and I came across the forces of the Sanctuary while trying to find our way back to the Thirteen Hells. Battle ensued, and we lost. Now, your High Priestess has declared that you will decide my fate. I will not ask you again to fight in my latest war. Instead, I ask only that you tell me of the Cybele Campaign and then allow me to be on my way, and I vow never to return to the Sanctuary.”
Irzaval’s body shook as he gave a barking, sardonic laugh. “Your insolence knows no bounds. I know that what you say about how you came to be here is true because Kassiarda is with you, which means that I could put you to the sword if I desired. Knowing this, you still ask me to aid in restoring your shattered memories. Pathetic.”
“Kassiarda told me that you have chosen a life of peace,” Zeraga hissed, “but all I see is that you have chosen a life of cowardice. Perhaps it is for the best that you no longer call yourself one of my sons. Your blood has thinned from millennia of indolence.”
Irzaval’s tail slashed through the air, and he clenched his fists, becoming the picture of smoldering anger. “Fine. You wish to relive the most horrific campaign in our history? Very well. I will tell you of Cybele, and then I will decide what will happen to you. Perhaps my recounting will be the last thing you hear. That would be quite ironic, wouldn’t it, to know who you once were just in time to die and lose it all?”
Zeraga said nothing; it was all he could do to contain himself as anticipation and frustration struggled for dominance within him. A moment of pregnant silence passed. Then, Irzaval began speaking again:
“Cybele was a verdant world, a cradle of life, and Asmodeus coveted it for himself. So it was, therefore, that we, the Crimson Dragons, were called to carry out his will…”
As Irzaval spoke, the tides of memory rose from the depths of Zeraga’s mind and engulfed his consciousness, spiriting him away from the present.
The End
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Next Chapter: The Cybele Campaign, Part I
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