This is the eighteenth chapter of Diabolical Ascension, the saga of Zeraga Baal'khal, the Doomfire. Discretion is advised due to graphic content.
The seventeenth chapter, The Cybele Campaign, Part I, 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
More foes awaited Zeraga and his cohorts beyond the wall of light. There was a throng of astranaari, thin humanoids with milk-white skin and long, golden hair. Ordinarily, their eyes would have been golden as well, but they were instead glowing orbs of pure purple, marking them as Chaosblessed. The Chaosblessed were eclectically armed and armored, and many gruesome trophies had been woven into their hair and were hanging from their armor and weapons.
Among the barbaric mortals stood a number of demons, amalgamations of limbs and bodies and eyes and fangs and blades. Two of the demons were larger and stronger than the rest. The first was half-again as tall as Zeraga and was a humanoid insect with a pale, pink carapace; and its multifaceted eyes were of a curious cerulean hue. From its midsection extended a skinless head that was vaguely bear-like and had three pairs of red, slit-like eyes while a trio of writhing tentacles took the place of the demon’s left hand. These limbs were of a darker, flesh-like color, and bloodshot eyes embedded into the tentacles frantically glanced every which way, never closing, never blinking. In its right hand, the demon held an axe of kaleidoscopic crystal, its blade engraved with the star of chaos.
The second demon was smaller than the first but still much larger than an astranaari. Her upper half resembled the Chaosblessed, though her nearly albino skin had a blue tinge to it, and she had an indigo crest and frills in place of hair. Her lower half was that of a great natterjack with a thick, swamp-green hide covered in gnarled warts. Her bow of blue crystal was trained on Zeraga, an arrow already nocked.
The Doomfire felt no need to waste time parleying with these wretches; they were part of the remnants of what the Azdorma’ari had been before receiving the benisons of the Lord of Golgotha. Zeraga’s arm became a blur as he raised the Hate Furnace, aimed it, and fired it, a crimson globe of superheated wrath issuing forth and hurtling toward the insectile demon. In that same moment, the demon with the frog-like lower half loosed her arrow. The projectile sped toward Zeraga’s shot, liquidating into a wave of cerulean energy at the moment of collision and snuffing out the effulgent, crimson globe as though it had been a common candle.
“Kill them all!” Zeraga cried as he raised Hellscythe and started stalking forward, firing the Hate Furnace again. “For Asmodeus and the Legion!”
Zeraga’s shot erased a cluster of demons. His foes were already charging. Churvômbhel and Drahligar countercharged, the clanging of Zeraga’s chariot sounding like booming thunder as it was pulled by the wrathful kuurzanaals. Sha’eryzhura fired a crimson lightning bolt from her halberd. The Bloodkeepers began casting spells, and so, too, did the astranaari; their erratic but strangely melodic words were a stark contrast to the harsh, regimented calls of the Crimson Dragons’ war-mages.
Torrents of crimson lightning and lances of shining blood screamed from the truncheons and hands of the Bloodkeepers. They were met by waves of chaos-flame, kaleidoscopic lightning, sizzling acid, piercing ice, and more. Eldritch explosions sounded off all around, serving as a prelude to a brutal melee.
Zeraga closed the distance to the insectile demon. It extended its left arm, and its tentacles shot up, rays of every color shooting from the eyes and streaking toward Zeraga. He raised the Shield of Twin Dragons and channeled his hellfire into it; the dragons’ eyes flared with sanguine light as crackling hellfire extended the shield’s surface, allowing it to catch the eye-rays. Zeraga then fired the Hate Furnace and called upon the unholy power within Hellscythe, invoking the blood-rage.
As the shot from the Hate Furnace was about to collide with the insectile demon, its whole body flickered, causing the wrathful, red orb to pass through the demon as though it weren’t there and vaporize one of the Chaosblessed sorcerers behind it. Zeraga growled. He was now nearly the same size as the demon; the transformation brought on by the blood-rage was complete. To reap souls was his only desire. “Slaughter!” Zeraga screamed as he sent Hellscythe’s blade carving through the air.
Slaughter! Hellscythe screamed back.
The insectile demon’s axe began scintillating as it clashed with Hellscythe, a strangely hollow ring echoing through the air. In that same moment, the bear-like head upon the demon’s midsection opened its maw, and a strange, whip-like appendage ending in three scorpion-like tails, encased in chartreuse carapaces and tipped with barbed, indigo stingers, lashed out at Zeraga, aiming for his midsection. The Doomfire twisted his body to the side as he threw the Shield of Twin Dragons in the path of the stingers and withdrew Hellscythe. He was a moment too slow. The stingers raked the devil’s armor, and one found a chink, biting into his waist. Searing pain needled through the site of the wound as the stinger disgorged its venom. It would have been more than enough to kill a mortal, but Zeraga’s blood-rage kept the venom from even slowing him.
Zeraga’s arm working like a piston, the Sword of Blood and Scales shot forward, the acid about its iron blade seething, its other blade of scales and fangs lengthening. The demon’s tentacles raced forward and wrapped around Zeraga’s wrist, constricting it; the Sword of Blood and Scales quivered as it came to an abrupt halt. And Zeraga was already swinging Hellscythe. The weapon punched through the top of the demon’s bear-like head. Purple gore sprayed everywhere and became the crimson mist upon which Hellscythe fed. If the demon was in pain, it gave no sign of such, instead hacking at the Doomfire with its crystalline axe. Zeraga blocked with the Shield of Twin Dragons, and Hellscythe continued to drink the demon’s vital essence. The demon’s carapace was losing its luster and color, and its movements slowed.
To the devil’s right flashed a streak of blue. A weird pain that was like fire and ice entwined erupted in his shoulder; he tightened his grip on Hellscythe as he roared. The initial shock gone, Zeraga turned his gaze upon the source of his pain. An arrow of blue crystal sprouted from his shoulder. Another flew toward him. He fired the Hate Furnace at it. The fist-sized, red orb disgorged by the inferno pistol erased the crystalline arrow and exploded, sending radiant sparks showering over the battle.
Before Zeraga could attempt to spot the demonic archer amid the pandemonium of moving limbs and striking weapons, the insectile demon slammed its crystalline axe into the devil, forcing him to let go Hellscythe as he was sent staggering back. The crimson pall upon Zeraga’s mind began to thin, and his body began shrinking; the blood-rage was leaving him. The insectile demon tore Hellscythe from its bear-like head as it stalked forward, its axe raised. Three more arrows of blue crystal whistled toward Zeraga. He pivoted and raised the Shield of Twin Dragons, hot knives coursing through his veins as he channeled his hellfire through the shield. Two arrows were blocked, devoured by the infernal flames. The third punched through Zeraga’s pauldron, biting into his flesh and sending forth another bout of pain like fire and ice entwined. Growling, Zeraga blindly fired the Hate Furnace in the direction from which the arrows had come as he cast a short spell.
The insectile demon was an arm’s length away; Hellscythe disappeared and reappeared in Zeraga’s grasp; foes screamed as the superheated wrath of the Hate Furnace consumed them. Spreading his wings, Zeraga hurled himself into the air, closer to the insectile demon, screaming, “Slaughter! Slaughter! Slaughter!” as fresh vigor granted to him by the renewed blood-rage coursed through his flesh. The next moment saw Hellscythe descending. A sickly crack sounded off as the weapon’s blade punched through the insectile demon’s uppermost head, plunging into its brain as purple gore sprayed forth like a geyser. As Hellscythe drank the demon’s vitality, Zeraga brough forth a monolith of hellfire that encased him and his foe, preventing any others from interfering with the demon’s final moments. The Doomfire savored the reaping, watching the insectile demon’s carapace become colorless and brittle, soon crumbling. And then, the demon was dead. All of its vitality, its very soul, now belonged to Zeraga.
Letting out a primal scream from the very core of his being, Zeraga dissolved his hellfire monolith into a wave and sent it surging across the battlefield, pouring more of his might into it. For the next moment, everything was light and heat and cleansing wrath as the Doomfire’s paroxysm did its work, leaving behind choking smoke and ashen death. The members of the Crimson Dragons had survived because they knew well their father’s preferred methods of waging war and therefore protected themselves with skins of hellfire.
Lord Zeraga, the Bloodkeepers just sent word of the engagement within the wall of light. The telepathic voice belonged to Zamyyr. Do you require reinforcements?
The foes were only a small band of Chaosblessed and their demons, hardly worth mentioning. replied the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons. However, we will need to establish a defensible base camp. You know the drill.
That I do, my lord. It will be done.
Zeraga landed and walked over to the now-regrouped Crimson Dragons. The smoke was starting to clear.
That was a fine battle, my lord. Churvômbhel said by way of greeting. Especially there at the end where you burned them all alive.
Zeraga grinned. You always say that, Churvômbhel.
More astranaari are approaching. Sha’eryzhura said. I cannot tell if they are Chaosblessed or not. There are a few demons with them as well, but the auras of their souls are strangely similar to our own.
Then they are likely the Azdorma’ari we are seeking. Zeraga turned his gaze ahead. Our battle with the Chaosblessed likely alerted them to our presence, and Empress
Pyrasaav’rí is no doubt eager to meet us.
I’m sure she is. Sha’eryzhura said dryly.
Hellscythe chuckled. How cute. She’s jealous already, and we haven’t even met the other woman yet.
Zeraga didn’t dignify the baiting comment with a reply. The way by which those astranaari who called themselves Azdorma’ari had gained the blessings of the Lord of Golgotha was Zeraga, in his previous incarnation, the four hundred and twenty-sixth, coupling with the first Empress of Azdorma’ar, Sayaav’rí, who had led most of the Chaosblessed away from the worship of Ahriman and the demon lords of Ag’graaza more than ten thousand years ago. Pyrasaav’rí expected to be able to replicate that historic moment. Asmodeus expected Zeraga to indulge her. Sha’eryzhura would rather see another fresh legionnaire turned into an autarch.
From the last wisps of smoke emerged a procession that steadily, regally, approached the Crimson Dragons. An astranaari woman was in the lead, a sulfurous, alluring scent wafting from her. Red eyeshadow accentuated her upturned eyes, which had a fierce, appraising glint in them, not so much as a trace of the fealty Zeraga had been told to expect. Her thin lips had been painted black. Her long, flowing, cloth-of-gold dress embraced her lithe figure and long legs perfectly, and the luxurious garment had been further adorned with rubies, topazes, and amethysts, tasteful but not garish; the dress would not have been out of place in the great hall of Zehtlkha’an. Only a single strip of cloth covered the Azdorma’ari’s chest, running between small, perky breasts with gray nipples. About her waist was strapped a copper girdle accented with metallic green knotwork, and a jaggedly stylized, crimson inverted pentagram served as the buckle. From the girdle hung an ornate, ceremonial axe with a handle of bone wrapped in leather. The Azdorma’ari’s left arm ended not in a hand, but rather in a long, svelte pincer, crab-like in the basest sense but far more elegant, encased in a ridged, scarlet carapace.
On either side of the Azdorma’ari envoy stood a demon that towered over her. They were yog-xraa: hulking, red-skinned brutes with octopus-like heads and large, left arms that ended in goat-like heads. The demons wore suits of golden armor accented with lengths and points of ruby, as well as patches of green chainmail hanging from the backs of their helmets, their pauldrons, and their girdles. The weapons they gripped in their right hands were mighty poleaxes of kaleidoscopic crystal.
Beyond these three were other Azdorma’ari clad in opulent, alien garb, and there were also other demons, smaller creatures bound in leather and chains. The sight of it all invoked disgust within Zeraga. These were the mortals he was supposed to help and free so that Cybele could be conquered? These were the mortals who had sworn fealty to Asmodeus? As far as Zeraga was concerned, these Azdorma’ari were no better than the Chaosblessed and perhaps worse. They wielded powers granted by the Thirteen Hells of Nyrrakhâ and the Primordial Chaos-Void of Ag’graaza, and they had chosen to use those powers on the pomp, hedonism, and debauchery that Zeraga saw now rather than using those powers to free themselves. Sha’eryzhura, as usual, had been right. It would be better to send this world up in flames and search for what Asmodeus wanted amidst the ashes. But, the Lord of Golgotha had made it clear that the Azdorma’ari were to be helped.
Suddenly, bright, red light flooded into the whole area. Zeraga turned around. The other Crimson Dragons had arrived.
Foremost among them was Obzhorvyx. He was a hulking, humanoid dragon wrought from iron who towered over Zeraga, sanguine eyes glaring out balefully from behind a rune-etched mask made from a dragon skull. Two lines of three smokestacks sprouted from his back, between his furled wings, and a dozen articulate, iron, spider-like legs constituted his ribcage. In his right claw, he gripped a double-bladed adamantine axe. A double-barreled inferno pistol was built into his wrist.
With Obzhorvyx were both warriors and workers, the diabolical legionnaires and the glayruk serfs of the Crimson Dragons, all awaiting Zeraga’s command.
My lord has need of me. Obzhorvyx said by way of greeting.
Indeed. Zeraga replied, knowing that his son had chosen to speak telepathically due to the mixed company. You are the greatest of the legion’s siege-masters, and I need the most defensible position that can be made from this place. Your objective is twofold: defending against any further attacks by the Chaosblessed and protecting this gap in the wall of light from outside attacks while I parley with the Azdorma’ari.
It will be done, Lord Zeraga.
The Doomfire then turned his attention upon the Azdorma’ari envoy, extending his hand toward her. “And you are?”
The Azdorma’ari turned up her chin and narrowed her eyes. A moment of silence passed. “I am Countess Vyzadria,” she finally said, “Empress Pyrasaav’rí sent us to escort you to our capital of Sadra’zar upon the island of Azdorma’ar. It is the Empress’s wish that you come alone.”
“I imagine that that is the Empress’s wish,” Zeraga replied, “but she will surely understand the desire of the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons to be accompanied by an honor guard.”
For an instant, Vyzadria’s gaze flitted between Zeraga and all of the gathered Crimson Dragons. The Doomfire both saw the fear in the envoy’s eyes and sensed it emanating from her.
“Very well,” Vyzadria conceded haughtily, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. “It is of no matter. Come. The Empress awaits.”
“I’m sure she does.” Zeraga turned toward Sha’eryzhura and smiled. “Will the Queen of the Crimson Dragons accompany the Legion Master?”
Sha’eryzhura stifled a giggle as she dismounted from her kuurzanaal and walked over to Zeraga. “She most certainly will.”
The Doomfire and the Fire-Bride then embarked upon the chariot pulled by Churvômbhel and Drahligar, at which point they allowed themselves to be led off by the Azdorma’ari procession Behind, Obzhorvyx and his crews began their work.
If I may be so bold, my lord, Churvômbhel said, for ones who have been waiting for us for the past ten millennia, the Azdorma’ari certainly don’t seem very happy to see us.
Entitled and arrogant is what they are. Drahligar replied gruffly. They think that we were sent here to serve them, it seems.
Worry not, my kuurzanaals. Zeraga said. If the Azdorma’ari do hold any such ideations, they will quickly be disillusioned of them.
The Azdorma’ari led Zeraga, Sha’eryzhura, and their chariot to the edge of the shore where water lapped against the rocky beach. Before them floated a mighty trireme. Golden filigree formed sprawling webs across much of the vessel’s hull, and the figurehead was a bust of Asmodeus rendered in marble: six-horned, bearded, and silently howling in rage; his eyes were fist-sized rubies. The vessel’s sails were royal purple and emblazoned with red, inverted pentagrams.
Gangplanks were lowered, and boarding began. Though the event transpired in silence save for the creaking and groaning of the ship and the light slaps of the water against its hull, it was still conducted with the pomp and haughtiness for which the Azdorma’ari were known, stoking Zeraga’s growing contempt for them, solidifying his perception that they had had the resources to free themselves the whole time but had merely chosen not to. After all, revelry in isolation was easier than fighting for the dominance that the devil-blessed astranaari felt they deserved but didn’t really have.
Once everyone was aboard the trireme, the gangplanks were raised, and the ship pulled away from the shore, its oars like the scuttling legs of a massive insect, taking the vessel closer to the isle of Azdorma’ar. And as the voyage began, Zeraga’s gut reaffirmed to him that he should have followed Sha’eryzhura’s advice.
*
The trireme docked at a large pier, one of the dozens that constituted the shipyard of Sadra’zar. More triremes and other Azdorma’ari warships were docked at these other piers; and sailors, soldiers, and slaves went about their business aboard and around each vessel.
At the northern end of the shipyard lay a monolithic, stone quay, seeming more like a demonic altar because of the pillars sprouting from each of its corners, carved with esoteric runes and crowned by grim-faced, fiendish-looking heads. Docked at the quay was a battle barge that was to one of the triremes as sharks were to minnows. Each side of the barge’s gold-plated hull had nine banks of oars, and upon the barge’s ornate rails were mounted many ballistae. Catapults were bolted to the deck. Overshadowing the panoply of siege weapons were nine enormous sails bearing the inverted pentagram of Asmodeus, stylized such that the lines were jagged, red lightning bolts; and there were many other esoteric symbols upon the sails as well, many of them not Nyrrakhân. The barge’s figurehead was a large, octopus head with baleful eyes and barbed tentacles; Zeraga recognized it as a depiction of Byar-Shu’ub, a demon lord who held dominion over the vilest seas in the multiverse and was the principle enemy of Leviathan, the archdevil of Cania, the seventh Hell of Nyrrakhâ.
Though Zeraga could appreciate the size and craftsmanship of the battle barge, seeing one of the wretched demon lords of Ag’graaza glorified alongside one of the archdevils of the Thirteen Hells had him wanting to destroy the ship, to fire the Hate Furnace again and again and again until there were only ashes left. This went too far beyond the bounds of merely using demons for one’s own ends, as even the Crimson Dragons were sometimes known to do. And surely, Asmodeus knew about this battle barge. Why did he allow it? Why had he sent his foremost legion to help a people so thoroughly in the grip of chaos? What on this world was worth that much?
Zeraga perished the train of thought, knowing that his rage would only grow if he allowed it to continue. The Azdorma’ari led Zeraga and Sha’eryzhura, still mounted upon the chariot pulled by Churvômbhel and Drahligar, away from the shipyard and onto an uphill path riddled with treacherous switchbacks that disappeared between a pair of slender, foreboding mountains. From the top of each mountain rose a golden minaret, and the undertones of the gold shifted curiously in the sunlight, going from rose to cerulean to viridian to topaz and then back again. Crowning each of the slender towers was a diamond that, even from his current distance, Zeraga could tell was as large as him. The two enormous gems had been carved in an obsessively meticulous way, each having a hundred or more facets. As Zeraga came close to the towers, his chariot moving at a forced pavane, he could see a tormented visage howling silently within each facet of each gem. Zeraga knew that he wasn’t imagining the faces, either. Asmodeus had told the Doomfire a little of the customs of the mortals he had so carefully molded, and one of those customs was that of imprisoning the souls of Chaosblessed and those Azdorma’ari found guilty of high crimes against the throne of Sadra’zar in great gems atop their towers where they would then be used as fuel for arcane workings of an apocalyptic scale if the Azdorma’ari Empire ever came under attack.
That gave Zeraga another troubling thought, one that he hadn’t had to seriously consider until now. What if one of the reasons why the Crimson Dragons had been ordered to help the Azdorma’ari, despite them seemingly being fully capable of freeing themselves, was because they were also capable of repulsing an attack by the legion, therefore allowing them to serve as a check for the Crimson Dragons? Or… A chunk of lead formed in Zeraga’s gut. What if the Azdorma’ari were meant to replace the legion? No. If that were the case, Asmodeus would not have given them such free reign in their worship and debaucheries, right? Zeraga didn’t believe himself; the thought was a thorn in his side.
He looked at Sha’eryzhura. If the Queen of the Crimson Dragons was plagued by any of the same pernicious thoughts as the Doomfire, she didn’t show it. She was the picture of austere regality, holding her head high. The sight brought a measure of comfort to Zeraga. With Sha at his side, there was no obstacle he could not conquer.
Between the two mountains from which rose the minarets was built a barbican of the same eldritch gold with an iron portcullis. Azdorma’ari soldiers clad in opulent armor manned the fortification. It was here where Vyzadria stopped, and she called out in a language that had hints of Nyrrakhân but was otherwise unknown to Zeraga, at which point the portcullis started opening. Once it was fully open, the Doomfire’s chariot was led through the threshold by Countess Vyzadria and her procession into Sadra’zar proper.
The city beyond, to Zeraga, felt like Asmodeus’s palace wrought large. There were castles and towers and minarets of gold, and each was ornamented with a world’s worth of scintillating gems, many of which had been cunningly carved into exotic patterns. Between the buildings stretched paved streets filled with Azdorma’ari and their demonic slaves, a tableau of grim countenances, sensually shown flesh, vibrant clothing, and shackling chains that fully displayed the excess, pomp, and arrogance of Sadra’zar’s citizens. It was through this tableau, this morass, that Zeraga’s chariot was led.
So many souls… Hellscythe whispered. So many souls ripe for the taking, and just think of how many of them can wield the arcane arts… Delicious.
Zeraga had to keep himself from salivating. His weapon had a point. Now that he was inside the Azdorma’ari capital with Sha’eryzhura, who could return to her natural form at any moment, he just might have a chance… He opened a telepathic link with Zamyyr.
I am here, my lord. said the second-in-command of the Crimson Dragons.
Thank you. Zeraga replied. How fares the base that Obzhorvyx is establishing at our landing point? Is it nearly complete?
A moment of silence passed; Zeraga knew that Zamyyr had pulled away from the telepathic connection to speak with the siege-master.
Zamyyr returned. Multiple inferno cannons have been teleported from the Baalkhalizar’s holds down to the surface, and Obzhorvyx reports that the initial defensive perimeter is complete. Multiple squads are currently making ready to teleport to the surface to reinforce the landing point as well. Zamyyr paused. If I may ask, my lord, are you expecting conflict with the Azdorma’ari?
Potentially. Zeraga replied. Let us just say that Asmodeus and I do not see eye-to-eye on the topic of why we need to help these mortals… or why we need their help to perform this invasion. Here is what I would like you to do, my equerry. Send Ôx’xâ to the surface and see to it that Asmodeus’s vision of Cybele is blocked for the time being.
As you command, father. Was there anything else you required of me?
No, my son. Zeraga replied warmly before severing the telepathic connection.
You’re planning something again. Sha’eryzhura said. You have that aura about you. What’s going through that head of yours?
That you were right. Zeraga replied.
Oh? Sha’eryzhura chuckled. What was I right about?
Zeraga gave the telepathic equivalent of a wry grin. The Queen of the Crimson Dragons already knew well what she was right about. She just wanted to hear Zeraga say it. He indulged her. The Azdorma’ari. Now that I have seen them with my own eyes, I know them to be a debauched people rotted from millennia of unchecked decadence. They marry the powers of law and chaos but squander the potential of what they wield, and it disgusts me that they couple with the denizens of Ag’graaza in the streets, plain for all to see, while pledging fealty to an archdevil. This cannot stand.
And we will show them the error of their ways. Sha’eryzhura said knowingly.
Yes. Zeraga replied. Yes, we will.
The Doomfire’s chariot glided into a stop. Before Zeraga, Sha’eryzhura, Churvômbhel, and Drahligar stood a building that could only have been the palace of Empress Pyrasaav’rí. It towered over everything else in Sadra’zar, a mountain of garish wealth that made the rest of the city seem impoverished by comparison.
“It is here where you and your guard will disembark,” Countess Vyzadria said, “and you will accompany me to see the Empress.” The Azdorma’ari shot a pointed glare at Sha’eryzhura. “Alone, for that is the Empress’s preference. As proof of the Empress’s good faith, you will note that she has seen fit not to divest you of your armor and weapons.”
Zeraga felt rage rear up within Sha’eryzhura. Worry not, my Queen. he said, his voice soft. We will be reunited soon.
We most certainly will. Sha’eryzhura growled back.
Forcing a smile, Zeraga disembarked from his chariot, and, as he did so, he telepathically reached out to Churvômbhel and Drahligar. Await my signal.
Yes, my lord. the kuurzanaals replied in unison.
The gate of Empress Pyrasaav’rí’s palace was already open. Zeraga followed Countess Vyzadria and the rest of the Azdorma’ari procession through the threshold.
*
The throne room of Empress Pyrasaav’rí was a grand hall replete with tapestries and sculptures declaring the glory of Asmodeus and the Azdorma’ari people. Shrill, rich music resembling the siren songs of mortal legend filled the hall, coming from choirs of slaves that had been chained to the walls; all of them bore gruesome scars upon their necks, and some had scars upon their groins as well. All around Zeraga, the Azdorma’ari court, clad in alluring robes and tight leather, danced in swaying, jaunty patterns to the tune of the music, and some of the dancing couples had fallen to the floor to shamelessly indulge their lusts, their moans and cries of pleasure thickening the heady atmosphere as orgasmic fluids pooled beneath them. Many of the Azdorma’ari who were coupling did so not with their own people, but rather with summoned demons or lemures from the Thirteen Hells, or otherwise both at once, and the orgies had a strange sense of ordered chaos about them. At various intervals across the walls were posted golden armored yog-xraa.
At the back end of the hall stood a crystalline dais that changed color constantly, frenetically, seeming to display every conceivable shade and hue all the time but always in different places from one moment to the next. Upon the dais stood a throne of skulls: Azdorma’ari skulls, Chaosblessed skulls, demon skulls, lemure skulls, and undoubtedly more, all claimed from those who had had the misfortune of attracting the ire of Azdorma’ar’s rulers during its ten-thousand-year history. She who sat upon the throne could only have been Empress Pyrasaav’rí. Her piercing gaze was fixed totally upon Zeraga.
The ruler of Sadra’zar had a fuller, curvier build than the other women in her throne room, and she wore a gown of black leather replete with buckles, spikes, and chains. Swirling tattoos covered most of her arms while long, red nails tipped her fingers. Darker, crimson eyeshadow accentuated her gaze, and her full lips had been painted onyx, rich and satiny. Her large breasts were fully revealed, and rose gold cosmetic had been applied to her dark nipples. A demonic slave, a two-mouthed, blue-skinned creature with arms and legs that were too long in proportion to the rest of its body, suckled and stroked Pyrasaav’rí’s left breast, groaning and moaning all the while. Pyrasaav’rí’s legs were spread also, and her skirt had been lifted. Another demonic slave ensured that the Empress’s nether regions were pleasured.
To Pyrasaav’rí’s left floated a large sword of black metal with pulsing red runes bearing a bone-white skull where the hilt and blade met. A pair of demonic slaves attended the unholy weapon as sensually and assiduously as the Empress herself, and the demon-blade emitted groans and moans as it was stroked and licked.
The sight of everyone in the hall and what they were doing disgusted Zeraga. Again, the Doomfire was vindicated in his view that these mortals were squandering everything that they had been given to the fullest extent possible. Fighting back a scowl, Zeraga walked toward Empress Pyrasaav’rí, and everyone paused in their dancing and fornicating to look upon the devil, but none dared invited him to partake, for that was a privilege reserved for the Empress alone.
Hellscythe was telepathically salivating; the hunger radiating from the weapon was palpable. That hunger stoked Zeraga’s contempt toward everyone in the hall.
The demons that were pleasuring Pyrasaav’rí moved away to stand off to the side as she outstretched her hand toward Zeraga. “People of Azdorma’ar, our deliverance has come!” Pyrasaav’rí declared. Her voice was rich and authoritative but had a soft, alluring quality to it as well. “Behold Zeraga Baal’khal, the Doomfire, Everchosen of Asmodeus, Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons, resplendent in his panoply of war, as was promised to us by Lord Asmodeus for ten thousand years of unwavering loyalty.”
A cacophony of hoots and cheers overtook the throne room. Every noise, especially those of the demons, was like a pricking needle upon Zeraga’s skin. He was being debased to appease these mortals. He wanted to kill every last one of them. He wanted to sate Hellscythe’s hunger. The weapon had been loyal to him through countless millennia, hundreds of lives, while these mortals wanted only to exploit him, thinking him little better than one of their conjured slaves. Zeraga closed the distance to Pyrasaav’rí’s dais. He did not kneel before her.
“A new age for Azdorma’ar has begun,” Pyrasaav’rí continued, “for the Doomfire and his legion will bring down the wall of light behind which our traitorous astranaari brethren imprisoned us twenty thousand years ago, and then, with the aid of Asmodeus’s devils, we will conquer all Cybele!”
Another chorus of cheers and hoots sounded off. Pyrasaav’rí held up her hand for silence, and the speed with which her order was obeyed was a testament to the absolute command she wielded over her people.
“Before the conquest can begin, however,” the Empress said, “it is only right and seemly that the blood-ties between our people and Asmodeus are renewed. At the start of our empire, this was ensured by sexual congress between the previous incarnation of the Doomfire and our first Empress, Sayaav’rí. I would see this tradition continued. Therefore, Doomfire, I bid you to come to my throne and enter me. I have eagerly awaited this moment…” Pyrasaav’rí’s hand drifted down to between her legs, and she began stroking herself.
Zeraga grinned, legitimately, savagely. “No one can deny that you are indeed quite alluring, Empress Pyrasaav’rí, but I would like first to give a display of my power so that your people can see the full extent of the infernal glory that Lord Asmodeus, archdevil of the twelfth Hell of Nyrrakhâ, has seen fit to bestow upon them. The Azdorma’ari will then also know how much greater their descendants will be when you have taken my seed into your womb.”
A few members of the Azdorma’ari court gasped. Pyrasaav’rí ceased her anticipatory masturbation to ponder Zeraga’s words. The next moments passed in anxious silence.
Yes… Hellscythe whispered to Zeraga. Yes…
Finally, Pyrasaav’rí said, “Very well, Doomfire. It shall be as you say. Show us the power and might possessed by the Legion Master of the Crimson Dragons.”
Zeraga’s grin widened, and he nodded before turning around. He then began casting a spell, purposely projecting his voice and exaggerating the gestures. Energy of every color swirled around his hands as he performed the working, dulling the luster of everything else in the hall with the sheer radiance of the kaleidoscopic power. At the end of the spell, Zeraga held a black, horned barbute with the star of chaos etched upon it, burning brightly. It was Ôx’xâ, the Horned Helmet of Desolation. Zeraga placed the artifact upon his head. It slid over his own helmet and shifted to accommodate his horns, fitting him perfectly in every way, for Ôx’xâ had been crafted by the Crimson Dragons for their Legion Master. For their father.
In that moment in which Ôx’xâ encased Zeraga’s head, his field of vision became consumed in flames; everyone else in the hall remained discernable because of their now white-hot outlines. The enormous, sinister presence of Charaezohar’en then came forward, strengthened by the eight other demons within the Horned Helmet. Charaezohar’en did not need to ask what Zeraga desired of him. The most powerful demon within Ôx’xâ could feel the Doomfire’s hatred and contempt and disgust toward Empress Pyrasaav’rí and the Azdorma’ari. Zeraga wanted them annihilated. Zeraga wanted Charaezohar’en to help.
The demon obliged, and so did Hellscythe, adding the crimson pall of the blood-rage to the vision of flames, euphoric about no longer having to contain its hunger. Profane might flooded into Zeraga. He became a behemoth of shadowy flesh and raging hellfire, onyx scales armoring his flesh as his war-plate and weapons grew with him. A roar of primal hatred boomed from his mouth as he turned around and hurled himself at Empress Pyrasaav’rí, Hellscythe raised high.
Pyrasaav’rí didn’t have the time to dodge, hadn’t anticipated this turn of events. Zeraga was already upon her. Hellscythe’s blade punched through her gown and skewered her heart. In an instant, her soul was consumed; the last Empress of Azdorma’ar was slain. Roaring triumphantly, Zeraga turned back and around unleashed torrent after torrent of hellfire upon the throne room, the Hate Furnace howling as it was fired again and again and again. Zeraga’s own screams rose above it all:
“Slaughter! Slaughter! Slaughter!”
Thus began the fall of Empire of Azdorma’ar, which had ruled the Chained Isles of Cybele for ten thousand years by the will of Asmodeus.
*
And in the present time, in the Sanctuary of the Reborn, the four hundred and twenty-eighth incarnation of Zeraga Baal’khal remained docile and oblivious, ensconced within the memories of his past life, as Irzaval continued his tale:
“None of the Crimson Dragons had been prepared for Zeraga to so blatantly reject Asmodeus’s orders, but we knew that the Battle of Sadra’zar, if it can even be called a battle, was but the first of many. With Zeraga rampaging unchecked across the Chained Isles and Obzhorvyx having mustered a sizable force at our landing point, there was no hope for the Azdorma’ari or the Chaosblessed. All were slain.
“In hindsight, I should not have been so surprised at what happened next, but…” Irzaval sighed, and a tear trailed down his cheek. “I wanted to have faith. I wanted to have hope. I wanted to believe that our Legion Master, our father, would be better, now that he had finally bucked Asmodeus’s yoke.”
Irzaval sighed again. There was a long, pregnant pause before he continued, issuing three words:
“I was wrong.”
The End
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Next Chapter: The Cybele Campaign, Part III
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