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Writer's pictureIsaiah Burt

Diabolical Ascension XVII: The Cybele Campaign, Part I

Updated: Sep 20

This is the seventeenth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.


The sixteenth chapter, Sanctuary of the Reborn, can be found here:



Image credits (in order of appearance): Petr Joura


It had seemed a mere accident when Irzaval had found the Sanctuary of the Reborn five thousand years ago, after the death of the four hundred and twenty-seventh incarnation of Zeraga Baal’khal at the blade of Ahriman, the First Demon, and the concurrent shattering of the Crimson Dragons legion. Or, if one preferred, the whole thing could have been called fate; there was no way of really knowing. The more Irzaval looked back on it, however, the more he preferred to call it fate.

 

Mere cycles prior to finding the Sanctuary, Irzaval had met Yarzenzu, a fellow exile from the Thirteen Hells. At once beautiful and deathly, she had once been part of the Wicked Rejuvenators legion commanded by Duchess Nergaalia of Domentior, the fourth Hell of Nyrrakhâ. Yarzenzu’s only crime had been that of being too skilled at alchemy; she had synthesized a poison that had the potential to kill a god… or a duchess. Yarzenzu had first tried to hide her discovery, but her legion brethren had found out and assumed the worst, forcing her into exile. And so, she had returned to Ix-Karg-Nhar, the cradle of those rare plants that held the key to deicide.

 

Irzaval and Yarzenzu had found common ground in their disillusionment with the Thirteen Hells. Nyrrakhâ was, technically, one of the planes of law, and yet it was so shot through with deception, obfuscation, and treachery that both devils had decided that the Primordial Chaos-Void of Ag’graaza was, if not outright better, then at least less bad. That camaraderie had blossomed into love, and shortly thereafter, they had found the Sanctuary of the Reborn together. Kassiarda had hosted and officiated their wedding in her temple, and the two devils had lived in peacefully in their glade within the Sanctuary ever since.

 

It was Yarzenzu who, having returned from her trip to the Sanctuary’s markets, now stood at her husband’s side as he recounted the Cybele Campaign to the four hundred and twenty-eighth incarnation of Zeraga Baal’khal. If the Doomfire was listening, he gave no outward sign of it. His eyes were glazed over, his posture was loose, and his limbs were slack. Irzaval had been ready to give up on the whole endeavor. Kassiarda, however, had encouraged the former Crimson Dragon to continue his telling, saying that his words were bringing forth memories within Zeraga that allowed him to relive the campaign directly. Perhaps, the High Priestess hoped, that would be enough to convince the Doomfire to give up his wars and remain in the Sanctuary.

 

Irzaval wasn’t holding his breath. He was intimately familiar with the dark depths of Zeraga’s bloodlust; he had once been one of the Crimsonblessed, those legionnaires who best embodied that bloodlust. Furthermore, Irzaval had worn the Doomfire’s Fangs, a terrifying amalgamation of metal and flesh affixed to his head that had served only to amplify that hate and rage and pain. He would never forget the cycle when he had torn them from his skull. It was as though his life had begun again.

 

It was because of that bloodlust, juxtaposed with Zeraga’s current state of docility, that word of his presence had spread throughout the Sanctuary like wildfire. Many of the Sanctuary’s non-undead citizens, particularly those who had once been soldiers themselves, were now packed into the glade of Irzaval and Yarzenzu to bear witness to the Doomfire and hear a firsthand account of one of the multiverse’s most horrific wars.

 

And so, Irzaval continued his telling…

 

                                                                    *

 

The incubation was very nearly complete. That was why Zeraga Baal’khal, Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons, had come to the Hall of Emergence. There were four imperious, brutish fortresses that constituted Zehtlkha’an, the Onyx Bastion, each bristling with crenellations and turrets all adorned with gold and ruby worked into draconic motifs. The Hall of Emergence was ensconced within the same fortress as Zeraga’s own great hall and treated with nearly as much reverence, for it was this place that cradled the future of the legion.

 

As such, no expense had been spared in decorating. The banners that decorated the hall’s walls were bright, orange fields upon which were depicted fully armored Crimson Dragons, bat-winged devils of red, gold, and black raising their fists and shouting triumphantly as streams of blood, their connection to their father and the source of their vitality, flowed into them like sanguine sunbeams from the banners’ perimeters. Between the banners were small, square iron shelves, and upon each one stood a statue of a dragon carved from pale jade, posed such that they were about to take flight while trumpeting their roars, and their ruby eyes gleamed from the light of the chandelier overhead. This chandelier, suspended from the ceiling by a trio of thin, adamantine chains, had been forged from feyrferreus, a metal the color of which was a putrid shade of orange, and it took the shape of three dragons bound in a circle as they motionlessly, endlessly, chased each other. Across their backs danced nimbuses of hellfire that never faltered. Golden trim encased each of the walls, bearing assiduously sculpted reliefs of soaring dragons, their wings edged in ruby and their proud, horned heads bearing malevolent eyes of the same.

 

Across the hall’s floor were spaced thirty-six sarcophagi arranged in a perfect square, an echo of a phalanx of legionnaires marching to war. Each sarcophagus was an artifact beyond price that had been crafted in the span of decades by the sorcerer-artisans of the Crimson Dragons. Lines of glowing, red runes engraved upon the iron exterior of each sarcophagus formed the canticles of empowerment and invigoration. Within pulsed a membrane of eternally living flesh, sustained by these canticles and harboring the blood of Zeraga Baal’khal. For the past nine years, a devil had slept in each of these thirty-six sarcophagi, cocooned in the flesh membrane that infused them with new blood and made them more than what they were: the sons and daughters of the Doomfire, reborn to wage eternal war.

 

Zeraga himself sat upon an imposing, golden throne accented with flawless rubies, and the back of the throne had been shaped into a pair of dragons, their backs arched against each other, their wings splayed wide, and their fanged maws open and silently roaring. All in all, it was very much like the Legion Master’s throne in his great hall, and every other throne within the Onyx Bastion, though not an exact replica. Each throne had been created by one of the Praetorians of the Crimson Dragons, foremost among the legion in skill and valor, and was a physical manifestation of that honored legionnaire’s devotion to their father. This particular throne had been crafted by Dursaav, a Bloodkeeper, one of the sorcerers of the Crimson Dragons who had mastered the blood magic of the legion. Sadly, that son of Zeraga had died on an ill-fated engagement against the forces of the archdevil Bhaaz, Lord of the Tenth Hell, on the Frozen Dirges of Uzaadyn. Even now, as Zeraga sat upon the regal throne sculpted by the hands of his departed son, an echo of the deathly chill that was part and parcel of the Frozen Dirges clawed at his spine.

 

At Zeraga’s right stood Zamyyr Ôth, the Grim, equerry to the Doomfire. That other devil equaled Zeraga in height, though he was bulkier; slabs of well-defined muscle were layered upon his bones. His elongated face, chiseled nose, and crust-like eyebrows made his visage strong, patrician, and saturnine, the picture that gave him his first title. His shoulder-length black hair was lustrous and mane-like; thick, ram-like horns crowned his head; and his piercing eyes were like living rubies. Bat-like wings with dark, crimson membranes were furled about his shoulders. The second in command of the Crimson Dragons was, from head to foot-talon, clad in ceremonial war-plate that mirrored that of his Legion Master: gleaming copper trimmed in a green alloy accented at the joint with ruby filigree; a crimson cloak clasped to his shoulders; and a crimson half-tabard hanging from his girdle. In each of his two hands, Zamyyr gripped one of his Axxcrudyr, weapons of his own make. They were rune-engraved, bladed monoliths of feyrferreus with stout handles of leather-wrapped dragon bone. Zamyyr’s third weapon was the serrated extension that had been affixed to the end of his sinewy tail, sheathing the bladed tip. This extension had been forged from feyrferreus into the shape of a dragon in wrathful flight, made more majestic by the cunning and tasteful placements of some of the finest rubies to be found in all of Golgotha, the twelfth Hell of Nyrrakhâ.

 

The beauty of she who stood at Zeraga’s left, but a breath away from the Doomfire, made all the splendor, luster, and pomp of the Hall of Emergence and its other occupants seem jejune, inchoate, and entirely unworthy by comparison. She was Sha’eryzhura, the Fire-Bride of Pandemonium sworn to the Crimson Dragons legion and the lover of Zeraga Baal’khal. In her humanoid form, the Queen of the Crimson Dragons was a voluptuous woman, with long, gentle curves. Her flawless skin was a shade darker and redder than marble, and lush, blonde hair poured from her head, cascading down her shoulders. Her eyes were scarlet, her cheeks were dimpled, and she had plump, heart-shaped lips. Her furled wings, those of her natural form shrunk down, were armored in red scales, and more such scales armored her hands and feet while stubby, black claws tipped her fingers and toes. Sha’eryzhura’s gown had been woven from fine, red silk that reflected the light in a curious way, and expanses of darker, crimson scales had been added to the shoulders and belly. Metallic filigree of a deep, navy color framed the gown’s low, sweetheart neckline.

 

In front of Zeraga, Sha’eryzhura, and Zamyyr, arranged in a line between them and the sarcophagi, were nine Bloodkeepers, each clad in ornate war-plate that was the color of freshly spilled blood, wearing cloaks that were a shade darker, and holding iron truncheons topped by golden dragon heads with ruby eyes. The centermost of the sorcerers turned to face Zeraga and said, “The time has come, my lord. Nine years have passed as of this moment.”

 

Zeraga grinned. “Then let the latest of my children emerge, for our next war has already been declared. Begin the Investiture of the Second Birth.”

 

“As you say, my lord.” The Bloodkeeper bowed low before turning back around to face the sarcophagi.

 

In unison, the nine Bloodkeepers raised their truncheons and began an eldritch chant that was at once harsh and mellifluous, trudging inexorably toward its climax. The dragon heads atop the sorcerers’ truncheons were soon glowing, bathing the Hall of Emergence in sanguine effulgence. As the Investiture entered its second verse, shrill and beckoning, arcs of crimson lightning chained between the raised truncheons, linking them. The third verse, regal and declarative, saw the crimson lightning streaking forth and striking each of the sarcophagi. As the incubators of the next generation of Crimson Dragons were touched, the runes upon their iron hulls glowed brighter, as radiant as the lightning.

 

Then, the Investiture of the Second Birth concluded. The crimson lightning disappeared, and the Bloodkeepers lowered their truncheons. The sarcophagi retained their brightness. As one, all thirty-six doors opened, smoothly and silently, and from each sarcophagus rose a blood-covered devil with a patrician, saturnine countenance, their red eyes staring at their father.

 

Zeraga rose from his throne and spread his six arms toward the risen devils. “Wecome to the Crimson Dragons, my children. Your legion has need of you…”

 

                                                                    *

 

“I am Dhorn, Diamond Knight of the Oread Lords of the Sprawling Caverns of Gargavos, sent forth to fulfill the ancient pacts with the Astranaari to defend this world. You blighted wretches of the Thirteen Hells shall go no further!” Dhorn was a monolith of an earth elemental, half again as large as Zeraga and appearing like a statue of an ancient hero come to life, noble and perilous. The Diamond Knight’s panoply of war was what he took his title from: his armor, sword, and shield had each been crafted from a single, large diamond of unsurpassed quality that could only have been produced by the elemental plane of earth, wealth enough to inspire envy in Mammon. These diamonds had then been worked by the oread gem carvers of Gargavos into their current form, and every care had been given to ornamentation as well as function. All of this was brought into radiant focus by the wall of solid light behind Dhorn, brighter than the rising sun and reaching for the heavens, making his panoply of war dazzle and scintillate in a semblance of life.

 

Zeraga grinned in sadistic anticipation. He and his retinue stood across the Diamond Knight in a spacious glade nestled within a primeval forest that was an echo of the splendor and majesty of Arcadia. The air was sweet with the nectarous smell of burgeoning life. Though this group that the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons had taken with him for this initial landing on Cybele could not properly be called a scouting force, he had never been one to turn down a fight.

 

The Doomfire was clad in his copper war-plate trimmed in metallic green, as well as his crimson cloak and half-tabard, and he carried a panoply of artifacts drawn from the vaults of Zehtlkha’an. The first was Hellscythe, his perennial companion, a regal weapon of gold with a razor-sharp, bronze blade with jagged lines of metallic green running through it and crowned by a shining ruby that was the same size and shape as a spear point. The second was the Sword of Blood and Scales. From the sword’s adamantine, ruby-studded cross guard rose two parallel blades: one was of serrated iron from which blood constantly dripped, sizzling like acid as it hit the ground; the other blade was a svelte length of crimson scales with line after line of tiny fangs, twitching as though alive. The third of Zeraga’s weapons was a golden inferno pistol crafted in the shape of a roaring dragon head with rubies for eyes, the fanged maw serving as the barrel; this pistol was known as the Hate Furnace. Lastly, the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons carried the Shield of Twin Dragons, a feyrferreus targe trimmed in adamantine and emblazoned with two Fire-Brides of Pandemonium, the legendary and feared a’aggyri, meticulously rendered in ruby so as to be lifelike, rearing up and facing each other.

 

Zeraga’s chariot made him the same height as his challenger. The adamantine vehicle was regal and perilous, a cataclysm waiting to happen. Its hull was sculpted so as to resemble the head of a Fire-Bride, and spikes as long as Zeraga’s arm sprouted from the wheels. From the snout of the dragon head sprouted an adamantine shaft to which were yoked two black, skeletal horses with eyes, manes, hooves, and tails of hellfire. They were Churvômbhel and Drahligar, Zeraga’s most favored kuurzanaals, and they wore barding that was similar in make, style, and pattern to the Doomfire’s war-plate.

 

Next to Zeraga, riding an armored kuurzanaal of her own, was Sha’eryzhura, also clad in ornate copper war-plate with metallic green trim. She carried an adamantine halberd with a blade stylized into the shape of a dragon head, accented with rubies and etched with angular, Nyrrakhân runes that glowed with eldritch might.

 

Arrayed in a loose semicircle behind the Legion Master and Queen of the Crimson Dragons were a dozen of the myrzor. They were muscular, humanoid beings with fair, red-tinged skin and patches of crimson scales and curved spines scattered seemingly at random across their bodies. Their armor was wrought also from copper, and they bore swords and targes of simple make. The myrzor were expendable shock troops created by the sorcerous art of fleshcraft, and even though hearts beat within their chests and their lungs drew breath and the blood of Zeraga flowed through their veins, they had no souls, and so most within the Crimson Dragons did not consider them to be truly alive. The argument mattered little to Zeraga, however. So long as the myrzor served their purpose and accepted their lot, the Doomfire was content.

 

“I will be merciful, Diamond Knight,” Zeraga said as he pointed the Hate Furnace at Dhorn. “I will give you one chance to remove yourself from our presence. If I am forced to violence, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

 

“You chose violence as soon as you set foot upon this world, Doomfire.” Dhorn punctuated his statement with a stomp of his foot; it sounded like a crashing boulder. Immediately, the earth quaked, throwing the myrzor to the ground. Zeraga and Sha’eryzhura remained upright because his chariot and her kuurzanaal had started to levitate.

 

Say the word, Lord Zeraga, and we’ll charge. Churvômbhel said, his voice thrumming with battle-lust. Let us show this arrogant creature the folly of challenging the greatest legion in the Thirteen Hells.

 

Worry not. Zeraga said in a voice of smooth malevolence. His fate is already sealed. The Doomfire pulled the trigger of his inferno pistol.

 

From the Hate Furnace screamed a bright, red, fist-sized sun that overpowered all other light, bathing the glade and everyone in it seemingly in blood. Dhorn blocked with his shield; a thunderous explosion ensued. The next moment saw Zeraga spreading his wings and hurling himself into the air, firing the Hate Furnace again and again and again as he ascended, raining wrath upon his foe. No one in his retinue moved to aid him, knowing well how the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons relished the thrill, glory, and sheer visceral intensity of single combat.

 

Dhorn kept his shield raised as he yielded ground, Zeraga’s shots dogging his backward steps. “Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed the word as he began his meteoric descent and drew upon the unholy power within Hellscythe. The weapon obliged; a crimson pall of bloodlust fell upon Zeraga’s mind as he grew in size. His skin hardened into crimson scales, and his fangs elongated. The Doomfire’s war-plate took on a similarly protean quality, shifting perfectly to accommodate his new bulk. He fired another volley of shots from his inferno pistol as he conjured a hellfire axe and wreathed Hellscythe’s blade in that same diabolical radiance.

 

Blocking this latest volley of superheated death with his shield, Dhorn pointed his sword at Zeraga. From the Diamond Knight’s weapon streaked a lance of silver light. Zeraga blocked with the Shield of the Twin Dragons, a wave of liquid silver sloughing off the artifact, and landed a moment later. Hellscythe was already carving a vicious arc through the air toward Dhorn. The Diamond Knight parried, the flames about Hellscythe’s blade snarling it locked with the elemental’s sword and began to grind against it in a struggle for supremacy. Pressing on the weapon lock, Zeraga swung the Sword of Blood and Scales, the seemingly living blade angled toward Dhorn and growing so that it doubled it length as it closed the distance to the Diamond Knight. Dhorn blocked with his shield, and there was a loud shriek as Zeraga’s blade of crimson scales and tiny fangs scored the diamond. As Zeraga withdrew his sword, Dhorn lunged and threw all of his weight into the Doomfire, shoving him back and freeing his own sword from Hellscythe, at which point Dhorn stomped. The earth quaked in gleeful reply, throwing Zeraga to the ground. From Dhorn’s sword streaked a sickly, green lance of the most virulent acid to be found in Gargavos, putrefying the air with its presence.

 

Hot knives coursed through Zeraga’s veins as he instinctively called upon his hellfire. From one of his outstretched hands screamed a torrent of flames that blossomed into the wall with which Dhorn’s acid collided, hissing as it evaporated and sending a cloud of green steam billowing outward. Zeraga rose, dismissed the hellfire wall, and fired the Hate Furnace as he stalked forward. Dhorn blocked Zeraga’s shot with his shield; as the two collided, the latter began to scintillate with rich colors of every hue, and the former was deflected, sent straight back toward Zeraga. The globe of superheated death slammed into his breastplate, stopping him in his tracks as agony wracked his flesh.

 

Dhorn was already closing the distance to his foe, his sword brandished. With his last stride, he slammed his foot on the ground. The resulting quake forced Zeraga further back. Dhorn then swung his diamond sword, and Zeraga sent himself surging toward his foe with a wing beat as he raised the Shield of the Twin dragons to block. A thunderous crash sounded off as sword and shield collided, beginning the next verse of the titanic duel: a furious clash of weapons as Zeraga and Dhorn swung and parried, blocked and riposted, two gods of war holding nothing back.

 

“Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed as he drew once more upon the unholy might within Hellscythe, the crimson pall upon his mind thickening.

 

The Doomfire fought rapaciously, now, thinking nothing of his own defenses as he drove Dhorn back step by step, stride by stride; gash after gash opened upon the Diamond Knight’s armor as Zeraga sought to claim his soul. Soon, he was nearly pressed up against the wall of light, making Zeraga’s hellfire seem dim and dirty by comparison. The Doomfire’s heart beat faster in anticipation of the coming kill. He fired the Hate Furnace.

 

Dhorn darted out of the way of the blazing orb with speed and agility belied by his bulk, and a pandemonic fulmination followed as Zeraga’s shot slammed into the wall of light, its surface rippling like water struck by a stone. Then, a wave of golden lightning roared from the wall and surged toward Zeraga. The devil encased himself in a hellfire dome. It wasn’t enough. The lightning punched through the infernal flames and slammed into Zeraga, sending searing excruciation tearing through his flesh; he had no choice but to scream.

 

As he regained his footing, Dhorn was already upon him, the elemental’s sword gleaming and dazzling, nearly blinding in its radiance, as it descended upon Zeraga.

 

The Doomfire raised the Shield of the Twin Dragons and called upon the powers within the hell-forged artifact. Dhorn’s sword clashed with the shield and gave a loud, clear, reverberating ring that was like the peal of an old cathedral bell, and the dragons emblazoned upon Zeraga’s shield flared with bright, red light that cast a rosy hue upon the Diamond Knight and the wall of solid light behind him. Fulminating hellfire devoured the next moment, a ravaging wave of it leaping from the Shield of the Twin Dragons and washing over Dhorn. The elemental couldn’t dodge; he was too close. Webs of cracks formed upon the Diamond Knight’s sword, shield, and armor as they buckled under the flesh-melting heat of Zeraga’s onslaught, the apocalyptic infernos issued forth from the maws of the a’aggyri.

 

Bellowing in pain, the first sign of it that he had given since the duel had begun, Dhorn pressed forward, throwing his bulk into his foe as he drew his sword back. Zeraga stood his ground as the Diamond Knight slammed into him, sending shock and pain coursing through his body, at which point the devil cannoned the Sword of Blood and Scales into his foe and unleashed a torrent of hellfire from a now-outstretched hand. The Sword of Blood and Scales punched through the lower portion of Dhorn’s breastplate as the hellfire ravaged him. Screaming, Dhorn headbutted Zeraga. A sickening crack heralded the hot blood gushing from the devil’s face. He screamed back, pressed the Hate Furnace into his foe’s chest, and pulled the trigger.

 

The resulting explosion blotted out everything else in a deafening boom and a lurid tide of sanguine light. Chunks of Dhorn’s armor and body were blown every which way, and the primordial force of itall had the Diamond Knight staggering back. “Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed as he tore the Sword of Blood and Scales free and swung Hellscythe. “Slaughter!”

 

Slaughter! Hellscythe screamed back, stoking its wielder’s rage. Slaughter!

 

Dhorn raised his crack-webbed sword, a shadow of what it had been at the start of the duel, in a feeble semblance of a guard. Hellscythe smashed through the weapon and sent diamond fragments thudding to the ground as its blade sunk into the Diamond Knight’s shoulder. And then, Hellscythe began to drink. Dhorn was rendered colorless in a matter of moments as he was drained of all vitality, his very soul flowing into the vampiric weapon embedded in him. The vigor that flowed into Zeraga felt like liquid diamonds: hot, radiant, uplifting, and having a strange sense of delicateness, that which had not been meant for battle but had nevertheless been put to that brutish endeavor. For a split second, Zeraga’s bestial grin faltered as he felt a distant pang of sorrow; in his soul of souls, the devil knew that he had robbed the multiverse of one of its most benevolent beings, a paladin in the truest sense of the word, to feed a hunger doomed to never be sated.

 

Burying the sorrow with a snarl, Zeraga tore Hellscythe free and fired the Hate Furnace at Dhorn’s body one, two, three times, erasing it. For a moment, the Doomfire simply stood there, glaring at the ashes.

 

Yes, Hellscythe whispered, feed your hatred. Dhorn opposed you and therefore deserved to die. Did you not give him a chance to live?

 

But still, that pang of sorrow, despite remaining distant, was as obdurate as the being it had come from. It was stranger, too, because Zeraga had never felt this way after slaying angels or fey or even other elementals. What had made Dhorn different?

 

Zeraga knew the answer, for he had the Diamond Knight’s soul. Dhorn had not dedicated himself to law or chaos, the great cosmic forces that dictated thousands, millions, of conflicts throughout the multiverse. No, Dhorn had dedicated himself to protecting those who needed it and preserving beauty wherever it was to be found. His motives had been noble and pure. Untainted.

 

And that made Zeraga jealous.

 

The Doomfire perished the train of thought. It didn’t matter anymore; Dhorn was dead. Zeraga shrugged off the crimson pall of the blood-rage as one would a heavy winter cloak after retreating to a warm hearth. The Doomfire’s body and armor returned to their normal sizes, and the resulting lucidity had his senses snapping into greater focus. Zeraga turned that focus upon the wall of light before him. Breaking through it was the next challenge.

 

He knew that the sorcerous barrier extended up and around into a vast dome, and it was constituted from the raw essence of the Eternal Light of Jiyaanu, the planar opposite of the Eternal Darkness of Ur-Dûr-Valatî. Had Zeraga had access to the energies of that plane of unlife, entropy, and decay, breaking through the wall of light would have been easy. But, the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons had led his children in a campaign on that plane. He had seen what it had done to his sons and daughters. He had experienced what it had tried to do to him, a fate worse than having one’s soul taken by Hellscythe.

 

Still, Zeraga had a solution. He telepathically reached out to Zamyyr. The Doomfire’s equerry was presently aboard the Baalkhalizar, the monolithic warship that transported the legion from plane to plane, world to world, conflict to conflict. Presently, the warship was in orbit above Cybele, cloaked in a shroud of invisibility maintained by the Bloodkeepers on board.

 

Lord Zeraga, Zamyyr said, I trust that things are going well on the surface?

 

Quite well. replied the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons. None of the mortals suspect our presence, and I have already slain the one guardian who dared to oppose us. Now, the time has come to break through the wall that separates us from the Chained Isles. Send orders for three Bloodkeepers and one of our newest legionnaires to teleport to me.

 

Yes, lord. Uncertainty tinged Zamyyr’s voice.

 

Zeraga severed the telepathic connection with his equerry and turned toward those who had joined him on Cybele’s surface. Before he could say anything, Sha’eryzhura asked, “Did you hear that?” The runes upon her halberd brightened.

 

As if on cue, an axe whistled toward Zeraga, slamming into his chest and embedding itself in his armor, the force of the attack sending him staggering back. He recovered his footing and tore the axe free, tossing it to the ground; more were already spinning through the air, hurtling toward him. With a flick of his wrist, Zeraga brought forth a hellfire wall that caught the volley of steel blades, melting them to molten slag, and he drew upon the power within Hellscythe to invoke the blood-rage.

 

The next moment saw Zeraga and his cohorts surrounded by stocky, barrel-chested dwarves, clad in leathers and bear pelts and bearing axes and hammers and spears. There were dozens of them, easily more than a hundred, and every dwarf’s grim gaze was fixed on those who dared to invade their homeworld.

 

Zeraga gave a savage laugh. “You should have left us alone, foolish mortals. Then, you would have at least had a chance of life as slaves to our glorious legion. Now, not only your lives, but your very souls, are forfeit. Slaughter!” Flicking his wrist again, Zeraga dissolved his hellfire wall into a wave that, with a great roar, pounced upon the dwarves like a giant predator.

 

A gap formed in the dwarves’ ranks as they dispersed. Agonized screams marked those who were too slow, their pelts, leathers, and flesh alike bubbling and melting. Then came a bloodcurdling scream; Zeraga charged. The Doomfire closed the distance to his foes with a pair of ground-eating strides, and the sound of ripping flesh rose above the din of devouring flames as the devil, enlarged with Hellscythe’s unholy might, reaped three souls with a single swing of the demoniac weapon. As Zeraga pressed deeper into the melee, his cohorts charged in. Together, they formed a spearpoint that shattered the dwarven formation, the dwarves’ death screams setting the tempo of the ever-blossoming carnage. It wasn’t long before those dwarves who had managed to survive fled, throwing their weapons behind them in a desperate attempt to stop a pursuit that didn’t come.

 

Zeraga relinquished the blood-rage and took distinct pleasure in the carnage all around. The dwarves’ fear and desperation lingered in the air, spicing it.

 

Well, now they know we’re here. Churvômbhel noted.

 

Yes, Drahligar agreed grimly, which means that all Cybele will be mustered against us in a matter of cycles.

 

At least it means that the campaign won’t be boring, right?

 

Drahligar’s only reply was a grunt.

 

Red light from on high suddenly washed across the glade, and four new forms appeared. Three were Bloodkeepers of the Crimson Dragons; the fourth was a legionnaire, clad in golden armor with precious little rubies. Zeraga recognized the legionnaire from the Hall of Emergence mere cycles earlier. His name was Virodaaz

 

“You call for us, lord?” one of the Bloodkeepers asked.

 

“Indeed.” Zeraga nodded and gestured to Virodaaz. “We have need of an autarch.”

 

Uncertainty flashed across the eyes of each of the Bloodkeepers. “Yes, lord,” the voice of the one who replied was low, hesitant.

 

Zeraga knew well the reason why. Ascending a legionnaire to the status of autarch, and assuring their death thereby, was only done in the direst of straits when nothing else, not even the Doomfire in the deepest throes of his blood-rage, could turn the tide of the battle. The current scene looked like nothing of the sort. Still, no legionnaire of the Crimson Dragons dared disobey their Legion Master. “It is humbling that you choose to bestow such an honor upon me, father.” Virodaaz’s voice trembled as he spoke.

 

Zeraga forced himself to smile. Virodaaz knew that he would not be alive in the next hour, let alone the next cycle, and Zeraga felt a pang of guilt. He was robbing one of his sons of the opportunity to experience the full depth of the legion, the brotherhood, the history, the thrill of ascending the ranks, and everything else. There were few things that Zeraga enjoyed more than rewarding his children with something they had fought so hard for, whether it was an induction into an elite, storied unit such as the Crimsonblessed or the Scythebound; or a relic drawn from the legion’s armories that had seen millennia of combat and would see millennia more.

 

Virodaaz would experience none of that. Still, what was about to be done was what had to be done to ensure the legion’s victory. The Crimson Dragons had never failed Asmodeus. This campaign would be no different.

 

The Bloodkeepers arranged themselves in a semicircle around Virodaaz and pointed their truncheons at him. A dolorous canticle of esoteric phrases began, each word a pronouncement of doom for the enemies of the legion, forming a wall of sound around Virodaaz. The Bloodkeepers’ truncheons started glowing bright red, and streams of that energy streaked forth and flowed into Virodaaz. Immediately, he started growing, becoming half again as large as Zeraga, his armor enlarging with him. Virodaaz’s face was the picture of exultation.

 

The Investiture of the Autarch had begun.

 

And then, Virodaaz was screaming. The sustained shrillness of the baleful sound was excruciation in its purest form. Zeraga forced his face to remain an austere mask, seemingly uncaring. The Doomfire again reminded himself that this was what had to be done.

 

It would be easier if you cared less about them. Hellscythe said. After all, are they not merely pawns created to do your bidding? That is certainly what Asmodeus designed them for.

 

Asmodeus does not fight our wars. Zeraga replied stonily. He would brook no argument on the matter from a weapon that was just as much his tool as his children supposedly were.

 

The Bloodkeepers’ canticle entered a new, thunderous verse as the crimson energy streaming from the sorcerers’ truncheons intensified. The sounds were not nearly enough to drown out Virodaaz’s screams as he continued to grow; he was now fully twice Zeraga’s size and contorting into the shape of a humanoid dragon, and a cloud of crimson energy formed around him, thickening. The sight gave Zeraga a frisson of sadness. The investiture was nearly complete. Lattices of crimson lightning formed amidst the cloud of energy around Virodaaz, the wrath of the Crimson Dragons made manifest, snarling for release.

 

A final verse followed the second, and it ended with Virodaaz letting out an earthshaking roar. His body was visible only as a silhouette within the opaque pall of red mist and crimson lightning that churned and raged about him like the turgid ocean of Cania, the seventh Hell of Nyrrakhâ. No longer was Virodaaz the legionnaire he had been a few minutes prior. He was fully an autarch of the Crimson Dragons, a lord of war. He turned to Zeraga and growled three words, his voice now possessing the quality of being many condensed into one:

 

“We need focus.”

 

Zeraga nodded. Autarchs were no longer capable of viewing themselves as individuals; they were the legion, and the legion was them, and the legion carried out the will of its father. Pointing at the wall of light, Zeraga said, “Bring it down.” The Bloodkeepers who had created the autarch had already retreated to Zeraga’s side, knowing what was surely going to follow.

 

The autarch who had once been Virodaaz turned toward the wall of light. “Annihilate!” he roared as thick, effulgent bolts of crimson lightning screamed from him, volley after volley, slamming into the wall of light again and again and again. Everything surrounding the autarch appeared as though it were being viewed through a veil of shining blood. Still, the wall of light did not yield.

 

“Burn!” screamed the autarch. His next assault was even more intense than the last; his only desire was to fulfill the command given to him by his Legion Master. By his father.

 

Finally, there came a sound like shattering glass with a strange, sparkling quality to it that somehow overpowered the autarch’s rampage, and the wall of light dimmed. The autarch let out an undeniably draconic roar as he threw his arms to the air. For a moment, he was brighter than a thousand suns. Then, he imploded. The release of so much energy threw the trees and the Crimson Dragons to the ground like a child tossing aside unwanted toys. The myrzor were evaporated outright. And then, the crimson light was gone, and there was silence. He who had once been Virodaaz was gone without a trace.

 

Zeraga was the first one back on his feet. Neither he nor his equipment had been harmed; he had covered himself in a carapace of hellfire that had been further bolstered by Hellscythe’s energies. A great opening had been punched through the wall of light, revealing rocky shores and a raging sea. Off in the distance stood golden towers sprouting from unseen islands.

 

Looking back, Zeraga saw that the rest of his cohorts were also standing again. The Chained Isles await us. said the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons.

 

As he was about to take his first step through the wall of light that hadn’t been breached since its establishment twenty thousand years prior, Sha’eryzhura caressed Zeraga’s mind, asking for a private word.

 

Yes? Zeraga said, issuing the word sharper than he had intended to.

 

My love, Sha’eryzhura replied, I understood why this had to be done, but—

 

But what? Zeraga interrupted.

 

Did it really have to be one of our newest legionnaires? Virodaaz was barely out of his sarcophagus.

 

I know what I took from him. It had to be done. Zeraga delivered the words with the frigid conviction of one who believed that what they were saying was absolute truth. The Doomfire had lived four hundred and twenty-six incarnations before this one. Many of those lives had ended because he had done what needed to be done.

 

There were others you could have chosen. Sha’eryzhura reminded him, firmly but gently.

 

Any others I could have chosen, aside from other legionnaires as fresh as Virodaaz, were all more experienced and would have caused a greater loss to the legion. Lord Asmodeus’s orders were to make contact with the Chained Isles as quickly as possible. The Azdorma’ari are already awaiting us.

 

And we do not need that renegade sect of Astranaari to conquer this world. We could deploy our battalions and sweep across Cybele as we have so many other mortal worlds, with you riding upon my back as we send everything up in flames. Then, if Virodaaz had died, it would have been an honorable death in battle, not this pathetic excuse for martyrdom.

 

I did as Lord Asmodeus commanded.

 

The Lord of Golgotha did not command you to execute one of your newly born sons. Besides, isn’t it you, rather than him, who is the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons? Isn’t it you, rather than him, who is adored by every devil and glayruk in Zehtlkha’an?

 

 A chunk of lead formed in Zeraga’s gut, and his mouth went dry. Yes. he conceded. Virodaaz had adored him enough not to question when he had been told that he had been sent to Cybele’s surface just to die.

 

Yes. Sha’eryzhura reiterated. Yes. All I am asking is for you to remember the high esteem in which your children hold you. Word of this will spread, and many will be discontented. But, they will accept it. They want to forgive their father. Please, Zeraga, don’t abuse that. Let us spend only the lives that we absolutely must here, just as we do on all other campaigns. Call me a heretic if you must, but the fact that Asmodeus has been preparing these Azdorma’ari, as they now choose to call themselves, for our coming makes no difference. They could have waited a few more centuries and never noticed.

 

Zeraga sculpted his mental presence into something lighter, airier, happier. As always, my love, you are correct. Thank you. The words sounded hollow to Zeraga; he didn’t really believe them. Asmodeus had demanded that the Chained Isles be freed as quickly as possible, and that the conquest of Cybele transpire in a similar fashion. There was something that the Lord of Golgotha wanted on this world that even Zeraga wasn’t privy to, something that he wanted desperately, and he didn’t care how many Crimson Dragons died in the process. The sarcophagi could always be refilled. This was something that Asmodeus had made crystally clear to Zeraga, with the punishment for failure being demotion to a damned soul, one of the wretched valahiyan who wandered Golgotha enrobed in everlasting torment. Unlike his children, Zeraga knew all too well that he would not be granted the sweet release of death.

 

The telepathic touch of one of the Bloodkeepers pulled Zeraga from his ruminations. Is everything well, my lord? I must advise you that the wall of light will not remain open forever, and when it closes, it will likely take more than another autarch to open it again.

 

Right, thank you. Again, Zeraga’s words were hollow. Let’s go.

 

The Doomfire passed through the threshold that Virodaaz had opened, entombing his guilt about the execution disguised as a great honor within his own need for self-preservation. He had to succeed, whatever the cost.

 

And still, Zeraga Baal’khal, Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons, didn’t believe himself. Not quite.

 

The End


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Next Chapter: The Cybele Campaign, Part II




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