Land Outcast
Explorer
Wow man, nice-a-setting and nice-a-story 
Rule of Darkness -Book II Chapter 3 Last Update 19 June 2008- Book I Completed
Land Outcast
Explorer
Just finished reading chapter 14.
Man, now you left me wanting to re-read blackdirge's stuff (after reading this, of course).
I won't post comments on the story until I catch up with your writting (3a.m. here, you've got the merit of keeping me awake and interested).
Man, now you left me wanting to re-read blackdirge's stuff (after reading this, of course).
I won't post comments on the story until I catch up with your writting (3a.m. here, you've got the merit of keeping me awake and interested).
Need_A_Life
First Post
[insert feces-related curse]!
False alarm... my subscription told me that there'd been an update... but it was only a reply
I think it's a reasonable assumption on my part to think:
A) I really need to calm down and
B) I'm already addicted to this
False alarm... my subscription told me that there'd been an update... but it was only a reply
I think it's a reasonable assumption on my part to think:
A) I really need to calm down and
B) I'm already addicted to this
Ghostknight
First Post
Chapter 21
Mekior sat eating, stuffing food into his mouth hungrily. Gyv looked at him and wondered if he had eaten in the time he had been gone.
"Slow down, my love. If you eat too fast you will damage yourself." Gently she reached out and her hand touched his, holding it back as he chewed messily, bits of food falling from the corners of his mouth. "Eat slowly; the food is here to stay." Like a child she coaxed him on, regulating him, making sure he did no damage to himself as he filled his empty stomach.
In time, Mekior seemed to gain control and the frenetic stuffing of food and gulping of drink became a gentler and less frenetic activity.
"Gyv, perhaps you can imagine what I went through, what insane tortures they put me through. That humans can behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension. They did things that I have never heard of even the fiends doing. I was not the only one down there, Gyv."
He stopped talking, his eyes taking on a distant, hollow look. "Anyone they suspect is taken down there for questioning. Those who can survive their interrogation for three days are deemed innocent and sent away, healed. The others suffer further tortures unless they give up their compatriots. I wonder how many innocent people cry out in despair and give up more innocents just to get the torturers to stop?"
"They threatened me with the fate of the ones they find guilty. Perhaps you saw it in the market place? They say they have a grisly display of those who cavorted with fiends, that they skin them and stuff the skins with straw to give a mockery of their semblance in life. The macabre remains are left to rot in full view of all. Gyv, they fight a religious war down here, not just a war against fiends. I did not understand much of what I overheard, my own pain was too great, but we must watch what we say unless we want to be accused of heresy and have our skins removed to decorate the market place!"
"Mekior, you are back with us. You will not face those torturers again." Gyv came forward, taking Mekior in her powerful arms, her hug a circle of safety for the tortured fiend. Within that circle, Mekior finally relaxed. Tears streamed down from his face, and uncontrollable sobs wracked his body as Gyv held him close.
Jeria looked on, feeling unnecessary, an unwelcome third in the drama of the two lovers before him. He stood to go, silently crossing the room to step out, only to be stopped as Mekior reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it as if to ensure it was real, and not just a figment of his imagination. So the tableau was set; Gyv and Mekior clinched together with Jeria's hand firmly within Mekior's grasp, when the door opened and the small devil appeared.
"Masters, your presence is demanded by the triumvirate." The devil laughed at their shocked faces as it gleefully threw a sphere down in front of them. For the three, the world in front of them blacked out, blurring into nothingness, becoming insubstantial, as a new cavern opened before them, one filled with flame, smoke, and the unending cries of those who felt pain but had given up hope.
***
The strike force stared at the massive fortress ahead of them.
"No wonder they feel no need to keep forces here to defend it. That place is powerful enough that a handful of soldiers could hold back an entire army!" D'Fir stared at the massive edifice, wondering at the rocks that had been smoothed, and then raised into the sky. Impossibly smooth, it was obvious that magic must have been used to construct such an edifice; it seemed the height of hubris to think that the 1000 dwarves under his command could breech those walls. Yet just as magic could raise such an edifice, so it could be powerful enough to bring it down. The Gir'Thia had best not let us down. If they do not come as promised, we are doomed!
Miles away on the plains outside of Crossroad, General D'Haan looked over the troops that had amassed and awaited his command. The eaves of the forest were at their backs, the plains hugging the forest and the road to the city a natural place for them to assemble within. The city was out of sight, a hillock blocking the sight of the arrival of the forces from the city's defenders. A green clad dwarf came up to the General, his clean-shaven face and cut of clothes marked him as one not native to Fort Livian. General D'Haan searched his clothes for some clue as to who he was, and saw the emblem embroidered within his clothes, an Outwalker from Lake Harmony.
"Seria, right? What news do you bring?" General D'Haan's voice was soft, but the effect of his having recognized the other was obvious. The Outwalker's chest expanded with pride from the recognition by such a legendary figure.
"M'lord General, the city is quiet. It would appear that our arrival has gone unnoticed. Their guards are asleep and the slave pens still in darkness. They won't blow the horns to rouse them for a while yet," he smiled at the General, risking the familiarity, "they are ripe for the slaughter, General! Let us destroy the devils this day!"
The General smiled back, his hand reaching out and clasping the shoulder of the scout in a gesture of brotherly camaraderie.
"Soon enough, Seria. Go and see if any of the mages that have stayed are prepared to fight. Send any that are willing to me." He smiled as he watched the young scout nimbly darting back into the mass of milling dwarves that, as he watched, his sergeants and officers were organising into the pre-planned formations for the attack. Ahh Seria, what would you say if you knew that we were merely a decoy? That our lives are forfeit to make sure our compatriots are successful? With luck, we will survive the day, but in my heart I do not know if I truly wish to survive to see the final war!
D'Haan sat musing awhile, watching as a group of mages made their way forward. They all wore blue robes, but those of the more powerful shimmered with the arcane power threaded into their weave. They stopped before D'Haan, six of them in all. D'Haan stood and bowed to them, knowing that for these men of the book, the bloodletting and chaos about to erupt would be a massive change from their everyday, sheltered existence.
"I am honoured that you have placed such confidence in me. Come, I will show you what I need of you." Carefully D'Haan and the six crept up the hill, peering over the edge. He turned and looked at the magi before him.
"Do you see the fence of the slave quarters? On the far side, near the forest eaves, there is a guard tower. Are any of you capable of drawing enough power down there to destroy that tower and breach the fence?"
"A slave rescue mission, General?" The speaker was a middle-aged mage, his face scarred with a myriad of tiny scars and one eye permanently clouded from either injury or disease. Though he seldom left the tower, Tercian was well known to many, a mage that many felt might one day find his way into the annals as an arch-mage.
Another of the mages, a young boy, his robes obviously new and his clean face a testimony to a beard not yet growing, cleared his throat. "I wish I could help you, General, but I am not powerful enough for that as yet. Though there are some amongst us that most assuredly are!" His guarded look at the older mage made it clear to whom he was referring.
"No, it is more than a slave rescue mission." D'Haan looked at Tercian, knowing that he was surely the most powerful of those present and thus their spokesman. "I want the chaos of guards running to block their escape to cover up what will be done next. After that guard tower is down and the slaves start their run to freedom, I want you to aim for the front gate." He smiled as they started; the massive iron and stone front gates were well beyond the power of any known mage to split asunder.
"I do not look for you to destroy them, merely to scour their ramparts and do as much damage as you can." He leaned towards them, speaking softly, conspiratorially. "We are trying to draw their forces out, get them to activate the Gate to bring more warriors to this spot. In case you were wondering where your compatriots, including Sister Egrit are, they are waiting at the true target. We must create chaos; thus the strike at the slave pens. They need blood for their Gate; they have to secure the slaves and thus a dual strike at the pens and the front gate will make them believe they must bring those additional forces in as soon as possible, rather than wait for when they are sure they will need them."
Tercian looked at General D'Haan and the young mage, a wry smile twisting up his mouth. "Never fear Gorgio, I will help. General D'Haan, you play an interesting game- threaten their ability to bring more troops in later in the battle and they have to bring them in early. Also, probably the reason you haven't worried over much about getting the mages into the battle. You need us to haul you all out once we get their massed armies coming through their Gate. Does that mean that one of the garrisons they will strip to attack us is the actual target?"
He stopped talking, eyes sparkling. "I do not expect an answer, it is probably best in case something untoward happens, and it would be better for me to not know too much."
Standing, he moved to the top of the hill and stared out at the massive, sprawling city with its winding wall that did not encompass the slave quarters. His arms moved, his voice inaudible from the rising wind. With an emphatic gesture, he pointed towards the guard tower and a column of flame roared down from the empty sky, engulfing the tower and the fence on either side. The flames around the tower stayed, a column of flame that burned hotter than any fire should as it incinerated those that stood within the tower and reduced the fence to ash, setting alight those sections near the roaring flame.
Eyes burning with power, he turned and faced the city's main gate, once more gesturing, and another tower of flame scoured the gate with its overlooking battlements and the great tower, which housed the winch to shut the entrance. Smiling he turned to the General and whispered, "I hope that suffices," before gently crumbling to the ground, exhausted from his endeavours.
Gorgio stood over him, looking at the two roaring columns of flame that continued to burn.
"Act quickly, General. He burns to keep those flames burning; he has tied his very life to those flames."
***
Hilo looked at the human child that lay upon his bed. The young human smelt and glowed from the oils in which he she had been bathed. Her body shone slightly in the low light of the room. His minions knew what he liked; she knew only luxury, brought up in comfort, her every whim indulged, her ten years ones of pleasure and comfort. All that was about to change, she would soon learn what pain meant and her screams as he abused her body all the more delicious since he knew they were her first. She looked up at him, no hint of fear at the sight of his red and black mottled skin, the yellow horns, short and razor sharp that crowned his head, a slight reddish liquid visible at their base, a liquid that could dissolve the skin of a foe if he so chose. He smiled; truly this would be most pleasurable!
Hilo had just started, the young girl lay there in chains, welts appearing on her body from each stoke of the whip that fell across her body, when the screams started. At first the sounds from outside were indistinguishable from those within, but gradually the smell of burning and drumming of feet made him realise that something was amiss. Pausing just long enough to throw a robe over his nakedness, he stood still for a moment, a blue eyelid flickering over his copper eyeballs, before his body faded and reappeared before the massive archway of the Gate, the cobbles in the square before it stained red.
He turned to a white robed fiend that stood to the side of the Gate. "What is happening? Who has attacked us?"
The robed fiend looked at the city's lord, and sank to one knee. With head bowed and a voice that sounded like the growl of a wild dog it answered, "It is the dwarves, Master. A mage is with them and has called down a column of fire upon the fence of the slave pens as well as upon the gate; none can enter the tower to winch the gates shut. It burns with more than just heat, it is suffused with holy energy!"
Hilo looked at the bowed figure and let out a great bellow of rage. His foot shot out faster than even the reflexes of a fiend could follow. The claws of his foot cut through the muscles, bone and vessels in the bowed fiend's head, sending it flying across the square, painting the arch of the Gate with sprays of blood. Hilo turned around, catching sight of another Gate attendant, standing stunned and shocked at the casual violence he had just witnessed.
"Get slaves here, now! Start bleeding them to bring in reinforcements from the Fort of Peaks." Hilo's voice boomed out across the square causing a flurry of activity. One of the white robed attendants looked at him, her voice timid.
"Master, shouldn't we bring the garrison from Whale Bay first?" She kept her head down, inching back, hoping she was out of range of the deadly being that ruled the city.
Hilo looked at her, and at the scurrying in the square as slaves were dragged forward, and others went towards the slave pens to bring out the masses of slaves whose blood would power the portal. "You speak well. What is your name, attendant?"
"Mepier, Master." She kept her voice low and managed to control her trembling.
Never before had she addressed, or been addressed, by the City Master. Perhaps now was the time for her promotion within the hierarchy, her chance to drink at the font of power.
"Mepier. I shall remember that. Open the Gate to the Fort of Peaks, now. Whale Bay is almost empty. A den of sea elves was discovered recently, and the genocide of those beings is considered more important than maintaining reserve forces when there are other fonts of support. Take charge of the Gate for now. Open it speedily, Mepier. Our foes show their intent by creating a path by which the slaves can escape; they hope to cut off our means of obtaining more troops." He turned away, heading towards the front gate. At the edge of the square he turned and looking at Mepier who stood in the midst of carnage, her white robes covered in the blood of the slaves whose hearts she ripped out from their chests and tossed into a niche at the base of the arch. He called out to her as he left, "Mepier, fail to open that gate in time or force me to use devil's blood to summon aid and your heart will join the pile." He turned away, knowing without looking, the frenzied pace at which Mepier would now work to make sure the Gate was opened in time.
At the main entrance to the city he stood, staring at the column of fire that burned down, preventing anyone from closing the gate. In the distance, upon a low hill he saw the dwarves, their siege engines moving forward and preparing to attack; armoured troops heading towards the gate that could not be closed. He smiled, stepping into the column of flame, feeling the intense heat burn his clothing away the holy energy biting into his skin, his own unholy nature screaming at its touch. He raised his arms, the dissonant clicks and guttural utterings of the fiendish tongue shaping power, as he drew the force powering the fire within himself. Behind it, he found the thread that led to the mage that had cast and empowered the spell. Smiling he followed the thread, drawing the very life force of the mage out of the luckless being and using it to refresh, and empower himself. He felt the cord stretch, the pain of the mage from whom he drew the life force. It was energising, and the taste of the mage's death as it followed on from the sucking out of the last bit of his life force invigorating, a nectar he seldom tasted, especially from one as powerful as this!
With the flames gone, lesser devils charged into the tower, driving slaves before them. Screams of pain from burnt feet were ignored, harshly barbed whips applied liberally to those who faltered. The heated metal of the gate winch burned the hands of the slaves to the bone, but they pushed, ignoring the disfigurement and crippling effects of the heated metal, the example of one of their number shredded by the whips, his body left lying, bleeding and dismembered in front of them; a motivating factor in their obedience.
Outside in the square, the stolen life force of hundreds of slaves had its effect and the pile of hearts burnt, consumed in a burst of brilliant white flame. The Gate opened, disgorging measured ranks of devils, marching out and splitting up, with some heading to cover the gap in the slave pens, now no longer blocked by the column of flame, as others heading towards the gate.
***
On the hill above the city, a devil stood beside General D'Haan. "You have your troops from the Fort of Peaks, General. They are here, now. See how they line the wall and the gate." The devil smiled; the bloodlust clear in his eyes. He looked at where the five remaining mages that had indicated their willingness to fight sat over the body of Tercian. "I will tell the others that the time for their attack has come. Good luck, General. Maybe next time we will get to kill together."
The tall, emaciated looking devil drew a viciously barbed scythe, its black blade adorned with red runes that burned, flames dancing along them from time to time. He wore black armour adorned with similar runes and viscous looking barbs and blades. Standing close to him the General could smell his perpetual stench of rotting flowers. Five other similar devils appeared to join him. "Survive this battle, General. I wish to meet you again." The Gir'Thia evaporated, leaving behind nothing but the stench of rotting flowers as they headed to the bloodletting to come at the Fort of Peaks
Mekior sat eating, stuffing food into his mouth hungrily. Gyv looked at him and wondered if he had eaten in the time he had been gone.
"Slow down, my love. If you eat too fast you will damage yourself." Gently she reached out and her hand touched his, holding it back as he chewed messily, bits of food falling from the corners of his mouth. "Eat slowly; the food is here to stay." Like a child she coaxed him on, regulating him, making sure he did no damage to himself as he filled his empty stomach.
In time, Mekior seemed to gain control and the frenetic stuffing of food and gulping of drink became a gentler and less frenetic activity.
"Gyv, perhaps you can imagine what I went through, what insane tortures they put me through. That humans can behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension. They did things that I have never heard of even the fiends doing. I was not the only one down there, Gyv."
He stopped talking, his eyes taking on a distant, hollow look. "Anyone they suspect is taken down there for questioning. Those who can survive their interrogation for three days are deemed innocent and sent away, healed. The others suffer further tortures unless they give up their compatriots. I wonder how many innocent people cry out in despair and give up more innocents just to get the torturers to stop?"
"They threatened me with the fate of the ones they find guilty. Perhaps you saw it in the market place? They say they have a grisly display of those who cavorted with fiends, that they skin them and stuff the skins with straw to give a mockery of their semblance in life. The macabre remains are left to rot in full view of all. Gyv, they fight a religious war down here, not just a war against fiends. I did not understand much of what I overheard, my own pain was too great, but we must watch what we say unless we want to be accused of heresy and have our skins removed to decorate the market place!"
"Mekior, you are back with us. You will not face those torturers again." Gyv came forward, taking Mekior in her powerful arms, her hug a circle of safety for the tortured fiend. Within that circle, Mekior finally relaxed. Tears streamed down from his face, and uncontrollable sobs wracked his body as Gyv held him close.
Jeria looked on, feeling unnecessary, an unwelcome third in the drama of the two lovers before him. He stood to go, silently crossing the room to step out, only to be stopped as Mekior reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it as if to ensure it was real, and not just a figment of his imagination. So the tableau was set; Gyv and Mekior clinched together with Jeria's hand firmly within Mekior's grasp, when the door opened and the small devil appeared.
"Masters, your presence is demanded by the triumvirate." The devil laughed at their shocked faces as it gleefully threw a sphere down in front of them. For the three, the world in front of them blacked out, blurring into nothingness, becoming insubstantial, as a new cavern opened before them, one filled with flame, smoke, and the unending cries of those who felt pain but had given up hope.
***
The strike force stared at the massive fortress ahead of them.
"No wonder they feel no need to keep forces here to defend it. That place is powerful enough that a handful of soldiers could hold back an entire army!" D'Fir stared at the massive edifice, wondering at the rocks that had been smoothed, and then raised into the sky. Impossibly smooth, it was obvious that magic must have been used to construct such an edifice; it seemed the height of hubris to think that the 1000 dwarves under his command could breech those walls. Yet just as magic could raise such an edifice, so it could be powerful enough to bring it down. The Gir'Thia had best not let us down. If they do not come as promised, we are doomed!
Miles away on the plains outside of Crossroad, General D'Haan looked over the troops that had amassed and awaited his command. The eaves of the forest were at their backs, the plains hugging the forest and the road to the city a natural place for them to assemble within. The city was out of sight, a hillock blocking the sight of the arrival of the forces from the city's defenders. A green clad dwarf came up to the General, his clean-shaven face and cut of clothes marked him as one not native to Fort Livian. General D'Haan searched his clothes for some clue as to who he was, and saw the emblem embroidered within his clothes, an Outwalker from Lake Harmony.
"Seria, right? What news do you bring?" General D'Haan's voice was soft, but the effect of his having recognized the other was obvious. The Outwalker's chest expanded with pride from the recognition by such a legendary figure.
"M'lord General, the city is quiet. It would appear that our arrival has gone unnoticed. Their guards are asleep and the slave pens still in darkness. They won't blow the horns to rouse them for a while yet," he smiled at the General, risking the familiarity, "they are ripe for the slaughter, General! Let us destroy the devils this day!"
The General smiled back, his hand reaching out and clasping the shoulder of the scout in a gesture of brotherly camaraderie.
"Soon enough, Seria. Go and see if any of the mages that have stayed are prepared to fight. Send any that are willing to me." He smiled as he watched the young scout nimbly darting back into the mass of milling dwarves that, as he watched, his sergeants and officers were organising into the pre-planned formations for the attack. Ahh Seria, what would you say if you knew that we were merely a decoy? That our lives are forfeit to make sure our compatriots are successful? With luck, we will survive the day, but in my heart I do not know if I truly wish to survive to see the final war!
D'Haan sat musing awhile, watching as a group of mages made their way forward. They all wore blue robes, but those of the more powerful shimmered with the arcane power threaded into their weave. They stopped before D'Haan, six of them in all. D'Haan stood and bowed to them, knowing that for these men of the book, the bloodletting and chaos about to erupt would be a massive change from their everyday, sheltered existence.
"I am honoured that you have placed such confidence in me. Come, I will show you what I need of you." Carefully D'Haan and the six crept up the hill, peering over the edge. He turned and looked at the magi before him.
"Do you see the fence of the slave quarters? On the far side, near the forest eaves, there is a guard tower. Are any of you capable of drawing enough power down there to destroy that tower and breach the fence?"
"A slave rescue mission, General?" The speaker was a middle-aged mage, his face scarred with a myriad of tiny scars and one eye permanently clouded from either injury or disease. Though he seldom left the tower, Tercian was well known to many, a mage that many felt might one day find his way into the annals as an arch-mage.
Another of the mages, a young boy, his robes obviously new and his clean face a testimony to a beard not yet growing, cleared his throat. "I wish I could help you, General, but I am not powerful enough for that as yet. Though there are some amongst us that most assuredly are!" His guarded look at the older mage made it clear to whom he was referring.
"No, it is more than a slave rescue mission." D'Haan looked at Tercian, knowing that he was surely the most powerful of those present and thus their spokesman. "I want the chaos of guards running to block their escape to cover up what will be done next. After that guard tower is down and the slaves start their run to freedom, I want you to aim for the front gate." He smiled as they started; the massive iron and stone front gates were well beyond the power of any known mage to split asunder.
"I do not look for you to destroy them, merely to scour their ramparts and do as much damage as you can." He leaned towards them, speaking softly, conspiratorially. "We are trying to draw their forces out, get them to activate the Gate to bring more warriors to this spot. In case you were wondering where your compatriots, including Sister Egrit are, they are waiting at the true target. We must create chaos; thus the strike at the slave pens. They need blood for their Gate; they have to secure the slaves and thus a dual strike at the pens and the front gate will make them believe they must bring those additional forces in as soon as possible, rather than wait for when they are sure they will need them."
Tercian looked at General D'Haan and the young mage, a wry smile twisting up his mouth. "Never fear Gorgio, I will help. General D'Haan, you play an interesting game- threaten their ability to bring more troops in later in the battle and they have to bring them in early. Also, probably the reason you haven't worried over much about getting the mages into the battle. You need us to haul you all out once we get their massed armies coming through their Gate. Does that mean that one of the garrisons they will strip to attack us is the actual target?"
He stopped talking, eyes sparkling. "I do not expect an answer, it is probably best in case something untoward happens, and it would be better for me to not know too much."
Standing, he moved to the top of the hill and stared out at the massive, sprawling city with its winding wall that did not encompass the slave quarters. His arms moved, his voice inaudible from the rising wind. With an emphatic gesture, he pointed towards the guard tower and a column of flame roared down from the empty sky, engulfing the tower and the fence on either side. The flames around the tower stayed, a column of flame that burned hotter than any fire should as it incinerated those that stood within the tower and reduced the fence to ash, setting alight those sections near the roaring flame.
Eyes burning with power, he turned and faced the city's main gate, once more gesturing, and another tower of flame scoured the gate with its overlooking battlements and the great tower, which housed the winch to shut the entrance. Smiling he turned to the General and whispered, "I hope that suffices," before gently crumbling to the ground, exhausted from his endeavours.
Gorgio stood over him, looking at the two roaring columns of flame that continued to burn.
"Act quickly, General. He burns to keep those flames burning; he has tied his very life to those flames."
***
Hilo looked at the human child that lay upon his bed. The young human smelt and glowed from the oils in which he she had been bathed. Her body shone slightly in the low light of the room. His minions knew what he liked; she knew only luxury, brought up in comfort, her every whim indulged, her ten years ones of pleasure and comfort. All that was about to change, she would soon learn what pain meant and her screams as he abused her body all the more delicious since he knew they were her first. She looked up at him, no hint of fear at the sight of his red and black mottled skin, the yellow horns, short and razor sharp that crowned his head, a slight reddish liquid visible at their base, a liquid that could dissolve the skin of a foe if he so chose. He smiled; truly this would be most pleasurable!
Hilo had just started, the young girl lay there in chains, welts appearing on her body from each stoke of the whip that fell across her body, when the screams started. At first the sounds from outside were indistinguishable from those within, but gradually the smell of burning and drumming of feet made him realise that something was amiss. Pausing just long enough to throw a robe over his nakedness, he stood still for a moment, a blue eyelid flickering over his copper eyeballs, before his body faded and reappeared before the massive archway of the Gate, the cobbles in the square before it stained red.
He turned to a white robed fiend that stood to the side of the Gate. "What is happening? Who has attacked us?"
The robed fiend looked at the city's lord, and sank to one knee. With head bowed and a voice that sounded like the growl of a wild dog it answered, "It is the dwarves, Master. A mage is with them and has called down a column of fire upon the fence of the slave pens as well as upon the gate; none can enter the tower to winch the gates shut. It burns with more than just heat, it is suffused with holy energy!"
Hilo looked at the bowed figure and let out a great bellow of rage. His foot shot out faster than even the reflexes of a fiend could follow. The claws of his foot cut through the muscles, bone and vessels in the bowed fiend's head, sending it flying across the square, painting the arch of the Gate with sprays of blood. Hilo turned around, catching sight of another Gate attendant, standing stunned and shocked at the casual violence he had just witnessed.
"Get slaves here, now! Start bleeding them to bring in reinforcements from the Fort of Peaks." Hilo's voice boomed out across the square causing a flurry of activity. One of the white robed attendants looked at him, her voice timid.
"Master, shouldn't we bring the garrison from Whale Bay first?" She kept her head down, inching back, hoping she was out of range of the deadly being that ruled the city.
Hilo looked at her, and at the scurrying in the square as slaves were dragged forward, and others went towards the slave pens to bring out the masses of slaves whose blood would power the portal. "You speak well. What is your name, attendant?"
"Mepier, Master." She kept her voice low and managed to control her trembling.
Never before had she addressed, or been addressed, by the City Master. Perhaps now was the time for her promotion within the hierarchy, her chance to drink at the font of power.
"Mepier. I shall remember that. Open the Gate to the Fort of Peaks, now. Whale Bay is almost empty. A den of sea elves was discovered recently, and the genocide of those beings is considered more important than maintaining reserve forces when there are other fonts of support. Take charge of the Gate for now. Open it speedily, Mepier. Our foes show their intent by creating a path by which the slaves can escape; they hope to cut off our means of obtaining more troops." He turned away, heading towards the front gate. At the edge of the square he turned and looking at Mepier who stood in the midst of carnage, her white robes covered in the blood of the slaves whose hearts she ripped out from their chests and tossed into a niche at the base of the arch. He called out to her as he left, "Mepier, fail to open that gate in time or force me to use devil's blood to summon aid and your heart will join the pile." He turned away, knowing without looking, the frenzied pace at which Mepier would now work to make sure the Gate was opened in time.
At the main entrance to the city he stood, staring at the column of fire that burned down, preventing anyone from closing the gate. In the distance, upon a low hill he saw the dwarves, their siege engines moving forward and preparing to attack; armoured troops heading towards the gate that could not be closed. He smiled, stepping into the column of flame, feeling the intense heat burn his clothing away the holy energy biting into his skin, his own unholy nature screaming at its touch. He raised his arms, the dissonant clicks and guttural utterings of the fiendish tongue shaping power, as he drew the force powering the fire within himself. Behind it, he found the thread that led to the mage that had cast and empowered the spell. Smiling he followed the thread, drawing the very life force of the mage out of the luckless being and using it to refresh, and empower himself. He felt the cord stretch, the pain of the mage from whom he drew the life force. It was energising, and the taste of the mage's death as it followed on from the sucking out of the last bit of his life force invigorating, a nectar he seldom tasted, especially from one as powerful as this!
With the flames gone, lesser devils charged into the tower, driving slaves before them. Screams of pain from burnt feet were ignored, harshly barbed whips applied liberally to those who faltered. The heated metal of the gate winch burned the hands of the slaves to the bone, but they pushed, ignoring the disfigurement and crippling effects of the heated metal, the example of one of their number shredded by the whips, his body left lying, bleeding and dismembered in front of them; a motivating factor in their obedience.
Outside in the square, the stolen life force of hundreds of slaves had its effect and the pile of hearts burnt, consumed in a burst of brilliant white flame. The Gate opened, disgorging measured ranks of devils, marching out and splitting up, with some heading to cover the gap in the slave pens, now no longer blocked by the column of flame, as others heading towards the gate.
***
On the hill above the city, a devil stood beside General D'Haan. "You have your troops from the Fort of Peaks, General. They are here, now. See how they line the wall and the gate." The devil smiled; the bloodlust clear in his eyes. He looked at where the five remaining mages that had indicated their willingness to fight sat over the body of Tercian. "I will tell the others that the time for their attack has come. Good luck, General. Maybe next time we will get to kill together."
The tall, emaciated looking devil drew a viciously barbed scythe, its black blade adorned with red runes that burned, flames dancing along them from time to time. He wore black armour adorned with similar runes and viscous looking barbs and blades. Standing close to him the General could smell his perpetual stench of rotting flowers. Five other similar devils appeared to join him. "Survive this battle, General. I wish to meet you again." The Gir'Thia evaporated, leaving behind nothing but the stench of rotting flowers as they headed to the bloodletting to come at the Fort of Peaks
Ghostknight
First Post
Chapter 22
Gerion stood hunched over a three dimensional map of the area surrounding Ger City. A conceit on his part to rename the city, once the capital of a human empire, but Jelial did not mind as long as the taxes flowed. He traced his finger along the rivers and the spine of the great mountain range. The area of Fort Livian was clearly marked, and not just from the frequent tapping of his claw against the map. Once again, he admitted defeat internally; no sudden spark of inspiration had come to him on how he could bring about its downfall.
Into his silent contemplation came the disconcerting presence of Priet. Gerion looked at the little imp with disgust. His intense dislike of the puny creature was well known, yet Priet presumed on his closeness with Jelial to protect him from Gerion's wrath. Gerion often contemplated ridding himself of his odorous presence and apologising to Jelial later, yet he held back. For Priet to be here meant that either he came with Jelial's blessing, or with something he felt would protect him.
"What do you want, you loathsome little dropping? What brings you here where you know your life is forfeit?"
Priet looked unconcerned, but kept a safe distance, out of Gerion’s reach. He knew that a physical attack was the least of his worries, yet at least this way he could avoid a casual slap or talon.
"I have come to make a deal, Gerion. My place in the hierarchy remains stagnant. I want to drink from the font. I want more power!"
Gerion considered the imp, "What makes you think that I will deal with you? You are loathsome, little insect. Letting you drink from the font, letting you grow in stature and form is not of the remotest interest to me. Why should I do such a thing?"
Priet knew he was treading on treacherous ground. If Gerion rejected him, he would have forfeited protection of Jelial and would not live for long. He licked his lips, his voice coming out confidently, but the slight quiver behind it betrayed his nervousness. "I bring news you will want, news of Jelial's actions that are hidden from you. I tire of being a mere pawn. In return for a drink from the font I will tell you what I know."
Long have I wanted to know news of the inner working of Jelial's mind, revealed only to advisors when I am not there! If I transform this one, he is going to have to stay here. Jelial will know he has been betrayed when he sees his transformation.
"Speak, imp. If your news is worthy, you will get a chance at the chalice and the font. If it is not, you will die for your treachery to both me, and your master." Gerion gave no indication of his real interest, merely waiting for the imp to speak.
"He has sent for Redili." Priet waited for some sign from Gerion, he had thought that the mere mention of the assassin's name would be enough to get Gerion's attention but was distressed at the seeming lack of interest. "It was straight after Jelial met with you. He did not seem to want you to know of it."
Jelial wants to send Redili after me? It had to happen at some point in time. It would be foolish to think Jelial would trust anyone for too long; he is not that stable and did not gain his position through being foolish. Let this one start his service to me. He thinks to play me against Jelial, but we shall see. Gerion nodded and smiled. He beckoned to the imp to follow him.
They walked through the city, slaves scurried out of their way, dropping face first to the ground, often hurting themselves in their hurry to appear eager to show their obeisance. The free citizens and fiends all dropped to their knees with heads bowed as Gerion swept passed. Their path left a trail of chaos behind them, the effect of so many instantly stopping their tasks, the dropping their burdens as well as unwanted collisions. None of this bothered Gerion, it was as it should be.
The two entered into a massive temple. Huge white columns soared into the sky, the entrance dwarfing even his massive height. The pure white marble’s purity was marred by streams of black and gold, and, since the advent of the fiends, red discolouration stained much of the pristine stone. Within the massive hall stood an altar, once dedicated to the King of the Air. The eagles and other representatives of his nobility had been removed and replaced with idols of bat- winged devils, all wearing the face of Jelial.
In the centre of the altar, within a small depression, stood a bowl, its sides not solid but swirling, red coloured vortices that if one managed to see through, led to a vast pool of water. Within the calm, centre eye of all the vortices stood a brown liquid, shot through with lights that sparkled, occasionally bursting into eye burning brightness. From the side of the altar, Gerion removed a chalice. It was made of some strange silvery grey metal, its sides hammered and beaten, bite marks and scratches marking its rim. Gerion dipped it into the liquid let it fill, and, with nothing being said, handed the near to overflowing chalice to Priet.
Priet took the chalice. Delight danced in his eyes. At last, millennia of existence as a mere imp would be over. Soon he would assume a new form, a more powerful form. The power of the water from the very font of power in Hell, channeled through a minor gate within the bowl, would mark a new life for him! More than that, Gerion had filled it, not just given him a sip. Truly he would assume a form of power!
Gerion watched as Priet drank; an observer would have been hard pressed to decipher the look in his eyes as he watched Priet gulp the contents of the chalice. Ambiguity in his expression as Priet drank dissapeared as he watched, with no skamm amount of delight as the form of Priet writhed, curling in of itself, his teeth clamped to the chalice's rim, adding yet another set of indentations. Nor was the look of triumph hidden; to the observer, Gerion would have actually appeared happy.
Gerion watched as Priet's body boiled, as his bones stretched in mind numbing, agony producing spasms. He watched as bones burst through skin, only to be rapidly covered by new layers of bone, muscle and flesh. He gazed on as Priet's head expanded and blood poured from his mouth as fangs and tusks grew. Yet the magic of the transformation allowed no death, no oblivion, only the agony of the drinker while it warped them, bringing them to a new, more powerful form.
It took at least an hour, and all the time Gerion stood there, savouring the agony of Priet as his body was broken and rebuilt. It was with disappointment that he saw the process ending. Priet stood, no longer the little imp, but now almost as tall as Gerion's twelve foot height. Priet was heavily muscled, sharp sword like ridges lining his arms, legs and head. He raised his arms, inspecting them, marvelling at the metallic blades that were now a natural part of him. As he did so the black leather flaps of his wings unfurled, their edges, too, razor sharp. When he spoke, his voice was deep, gruff, as if it arose out of a dark pit.
"What are your orders, my Master?" Priet wondered at himself, trying to control what he said next, but unable to move against the force which controlled him, "Speak, that I may obey!"
Gerion looked at the devil before him. The transformation was perfect. Priet was now powerful, a warrior that would be able to defeat most others in battle. He circled him, marvelling at how the power had shaped him, at how his own desires had seized control of the process to not only direct the transformation of his body, but of his mind too.
"You are no longer Priet. From now on, you shall be known as Ger'liek. Now go, and bring Redili to me; alive if you can, dead otherwise."
Within the mind of Priet, the last shreds of his will blew away, like cobwebs in a storm. Ger'liek, Gerion's spawn. So be it, I live to serve. With a bow of his head, his powerful feet dug into the ground and talons on his feet cracked the marble underfoot. Legs bent, and then propelled him into the sky, his dark wings flapping as he sped towards his unsuspecting prey. He smiled, it felt good to be the hunter.
***
Jeria, Mekior and Gyv looked out onto a vista of pain. The cavern floor disappeared a few paces away from them, as it opened onto sights that assailed the eye and mind. Vast rivers of lava flowed beneath, basalt islands jutted out, crowned by huts of black rock. On the outside of each hut was a pole from which a creature of some description hung, some by their hands, some by their legs, some by hooks piercing various parts of their bodies. All were alive, but in various states of disrepair. All voiced their pain: in screams, in moans, in pleading cries to the unyielding heavens.
A chuckle behind them caused them to turn, and come face to face with a truly fearsome being. His skin was so pale as to be almost translucent, veins of red visible through the thin, white veneer. His eyes were colourless, except for the dancing red flames of his pupils. His hair, too, was colourless, cascading down over his naked body, emphasising the sculpted muscles, the obvious beauty of the body and the face, if the odd, translucent, skin could just be coloured to something less strange. The horror came at his waist. The being's entire form changed, his two legs reminiscent of a vulture's; thin, spindly, covered in scales of yellow with a sickly green caste. The feet, too, were those of a massive raptor, but the nails were iron and they left thick, black ooze behind as the creature walked. Too, the fearsomeness of the creature was enhanced by its stench; a stench that burnt their noses, causing them to cough and gag.
"Welcome to the domain of the triumvirate. Thank you for accepting our invitation." His face remained impassive, leaving the three companions with enough time to take stock of the situation.
Jeria took control, finding it easiest to disregard the creature's stench and stand straight.
"What invitation? It is against our wills that we stand here. Who are you and what is this place?" He swept his arms round, encompassing the cavern, and the scene behind him. With a start, he realised that where the chasm had been before there was now just a blank cave wall. "What..."
As he started to speak, the creature opened its mouth emitting; a low, deep- throated growl, which tapered off as his forked tongue licked his lips and traced itself over razor sharp fangs.
"I was just being pleasant. Many of the Triumvirate's guests appreciate the images of our lost home. You speak the truth, giving voice to reality, conjuring the images of your hostility. The Triumverate has spoken, and ordered. You will stay here as long as the Triumvirate decides. Hope that they choose to meet with you soon. We have little of your type of food here and will have to feed you slaves of your own race."
Gyv looked at him in horror, her hand moving towards her sword. Mekior reached out, laying his hand onto her arm, restraining her from taking action.
"You threaten us, yet clearly we are wanted here. Let us stop this posturing and get the meeting done with. After all, are you offering those who are Masters here for my dinner?"
The creature looked at Mekior, eyes narrowed. A few moments passed in silence before flames danced around Mekior, not burning but passing through him, shredding the illusion that cloaked him, unravelling it for all to see. The human form known to Gyv and Jeria slowly melted away, the illusion dissipating in the magical flames. Mekior stood before them in his natural form. He was no taller nor was the build of his body any different. His skin was green scales, most of it covered by his clothes and armour, but where it was visible, it shimmered slightly in the light. Around his eyes, thick, bone like ridges protected deep sunken orbs of yellow and black, his nose no more than two slits above a wide mouth filled with sharp teeth. His hands sported seven fingers each, each one long and slender surmounted with stiletto like claws that looked metallic.
"Renegade. You should not be here. Our Masters do not appreciate your kind. Far too many times we have offered places to your ilk, and too many times have we been turned down. Tread softly, Renegade."
He bowed, the gesture comically done, clearly a bow of mockery and derision. "Come, you will be shown to guest quarters where you can prepare for your interview with the Triumvirate."
He marched off, leaving the three travellers with no choice, but to follow where he led. Their complete lack of choices was highlighted by the high-pitched sing of the little devil behind them. The scrapping of poles on stones as four devils, wielding halberds, moved towards them from hidden recesses within the walls emphasised their position. Seeing no choice, the three followed, leaving the cavern through the single visible opening, entering into the flickering light beyond.
***
Outside the Fort of Peaks, D'Fir stood and watched as the sky lit up. A beam of red light shot into the sky, accompanied by an ear-piercing note. From the ranks behind him Sister Egrit arrived, her face flushed, as six of the Gir’Thia arrived behind her.
"Our allies have arrived." Her disdain for the Gir'Thia was obvious, as was the amusement of the Gir’Thia at her continued discomfort in their presence. Their commander stepped forward, his face showing as much pleasure as its emaciated, fiendish brow would allow. Baring his fangs in a hideous parody of a smile he placed his arm on Sister Egrit's shoulder and addressed D'Fir.
"Prince, as my friend here has said, we have arrived. I am Commander Hulia. My squad and I will go first to clear the gatehouse and open the way for your men. Once that is done, we can all have fun in the massacre to follow."
D'Fir was about to reply when Sister Egrit spoke up, angrily pushing the fiend's arm from her shoulder.
"We will not have fun in there! Yes, it will be a massacre, but unlike the fiends, we will be merciful in our killing. Make the strikes swift, clean and deadly. Let us not leave them in lingering agony or perpetual pain." She looked at D'Fir, "Order your men so, or I will leave, and take the mages of the Tower Arcane with me!"
D'Fir sighed. The combined support of the devils and angels was a blessing, but a curse as well. "Commander Hulia, do you think you can restrain your troops, have them kill, but not torture or maim? If you can, do so. Sister Egrit, I will pass that order to my men, but can make no promises for the excesses that arise in battle."
***
The battle for the Fort of Peaks was short, and bloody. Those few devils that manned the massive gate house, complacent and smug in their remote fortress, lasted not even an eye blink as the Gir'Thia, elite warriors and far deadlier than the poor guards, waded into them, scythes flickering in the light of the hearth fires, scattering fiendish blood across the room in rivulets of death.
The inhabitants of the Fort fared no better. The dwarves, mages, angels and fiends rampaged through. All within died, put to the sword, their bodies piled in the centre of the gate to Crossroads, their hearts used to send them onwards, a message that the Fort had fallen. If some appeared to have been dismembered and cut multiple times before they died, nobody said anything. After all, who can control the excesses of battle, particularly after three thousand years of suffering? With axe and pick, the dwarves attacked the mighty arch once their deed was completed. To retake the city, the fiends would have to come the long way round.
Outside of Crossroads, the battle was at a standstill. Hilo stood at the gates, looking at the ranked dwarves below. Occasional rocks flew over his head as their catapults sang their song, but damage was minimal, merely cosmetic now that the mage that had attacked lay dead. He smiled; behind the gate his forces gathered, ready for their counter attack. He frowned as he heard the Gate sing, the high-pitched note of it opening from the other side.
Turning, he saw the pile of bodies come through the arch, and then the flickering as the Gate closed once again. Turning back to the dwarves outside, he roared in despair. Slowly, methodically, he saw the emaciated form of fiends move amongst them, each removing a portion of his foe from the field of battle.
"We have been tricked! Open the gate and get those who remain!" He looked out, despairing. My life is forfeit this day. Jelial will not forgive me for this defeat, even though I just followed the orders he gave.
He watched as his troops engaged the paltry remains of the besieging army, and then he turned, gathering his power to take himself elsewhere. With Jelial wanting him dead, he would need a new patron. Perhaps the renegades would welcome him within their ranks.
Gerion stood hunched over a three dimensional map of the area surrounding Ger City. A conceit on his part to rename the city, once the capital of a human empire, but Jelial did not mind as long as the taxes flowed. He traced his finger along the rivers and the spine of the great mountain range. The area of Fort Livian was clearly marked, and not just from the frequent tapping of his claw against the map. Once again, he admitted defeat internally; no sudden spark of inspiration had come to him on how he could bring about its downfall.
Into his silent contemplation came the disconcerting presence of Priet. Gerion looked at the little imp with disgust. His intense dislike of the puny creature was well known, yet Priet presumed on his closeness with Jelial to protect him from Gerion's wrath. Gerion often contemplated ridding himself of his odorous presence and apologising to Jelial later, yet he held back. For Priet to be here meant that either he came with Jelial's blessing, or with something he felt would protect him.
"What do you want, you loathsome little dropping? What brings you here where you know your life is forfeit?"
Priet looked unconcerned, but kept a safe distance, out of Gerion’s reach. He knew that a physical attack was the least of his worries, yet at least this way he could avoid a casual slap or talon.
"I have come to make a deal, Gerion. My place in the hierarchy remains stagnant. I want to drink from the font. I want more power!"
Gerion considered the imp, "What makes you think that I will deal with you? You are loathsome, little insect. Letting you drink from the font, letting you grow in stature and form is not of the remotest interest to me. Why should I do such a thing?"
Priet knew he was treading on treacherous ground. If Gerion rejected him, he would have forfeited protection of Jelial and would not live for long. He licked his lips, his voice coming out confidently, but the slight quiver behind it betrayed his nervousness. "I bring news you will want, news of Jelial's actions that are hidden from you. I tire of being a mere pawn. In return for a drink from the font I will tell you what I know."
Long have I wanted to know news of the inner working of Jelial's mind, revealed only to advisors when I am not there! If I transform this one, he is going to have to stay here. Jelial will know he has been betrayed when he sees his transformation.
"Speak, imp. If your news is worthy, you will get a chance at the chalice and the font. If it is not, you will die for your treachery to both me, and your master." Gerion gave no indication of his real interest, merely waiting for the imp to speak.
"He has sent for Redili." Priet waited for some sign from Gerion, he had thought that the mere mention of the assassin's name would be enough to get Gerion's attention but was distressed at the seeming lack of interest. "It was straight after Jelial met with you. He did not seem to want you to know of it."
Jelial wants to send Redili after me? It had to happen at some point in time. It would be foolish to think Jelial would trust anyone for too long; he is not that stable and did not gain his position through being foolish. Let this one start his service to me. He thinks to play me against Jelial, but we shall see. Gerion nodded and smiled. He beckoned to the imp to follow him.
They walked through the city, slaves scurried out of their way, dropping face first to the ground, often hurting themselves in their hurry to appear eager to show their obeisance. The free citizens and fiends all dropped to their knees with heads bowed as Gerion swept passed. Their path left a trail of chaos behind them, the effect of so many instantly stopping their tasks, the dropping their burdens as well as unwanted collisions. None of this bothered Gerion, it was as it should be.
The two entered into a massive temple. Huge white columns soared into the sky, the entrance dwarfing even his massive height. The pure white marble’s purity was marred by streams of black and gold, and, since the advent of the fiends, red discolouration stained much of the pristine stone. Within the massive hall stood an altar, once dedicated to the King of the Air. The eagles and other representatives of his nobility had been removed and replaced with idols of bat- winged devils, all wearing the face of Jelial.
In the centre of the altar, within a small depression, stood a bowl, its sides not solid but swirling, red coloured vortices that if one managed to see through, led to a vast pool of water. Within the calm, centre eye of all the vortices stood a brown liquid, shot through with lights that sparkled, occasionally bursting into eye burning brightness. From the side of the altar, Gerion removed a chalice. It was made of some strange silvery grey metal, its sides hammered and beaten, bite marks and scratches marking its rim. Gerion dipped it into the liquid let it fill, and, with nothing being said, handed the near to overflowing chalice to Priet.
Priet took the chalice. Delight danced in his eyes. At last, millennia of existence as a mere imp would be over. Soon he would assume a new form, a more powerful form. The power of the water from the very font of power in Hell, channeled through a minor gate within the bowl, would mark a new life for him! More than that, Gerion had filled it, not just given him a sip. Truly he would assume a form of power!
Gerion watched as Priet drank; an observer would have been hard pressed to decipher the look in his eyes as he watched Priet gulp the contents of the chalice. Ambiguity in his expression as Priet drank dissapeared as he watched, with no skamm amount of delight as the form of Priet writhed, curling in of itself, his teeth clamped to the chalice's rim, adding yet another set of indentations. Nor was the look of triumph hidden; to the observer, Gerion would have actually appeared happy.
Gerion watched as Priet's body boiled, as his bones stretched in mind numbing, agony producing spasms. He watched as bones burst through skin, only to be rapidly covered by new layers of bone, muscle and flesh. He gazed on as Priet's head expanded and blood poured from his mouth as fangs and tusks grew. Yet the magic of the transformation allowed no death, no oblivion, only the agony of the drinker while it warped them, bringing them to a new, more powerful form.
It took at least an hour, and all the time Gerion stood there, savouring the agony of Priet as his body was broken and rebuilt. It was with disappointment that he saw the process ending. Priet stood, no longer the little imp, but now almost as tall as Gerion's twelve foot height. Priet was heavily muscled, sharp sword like ridges lining his arms, legs and head. He raised his arms, inspecting them, marvelling at the metallic blades that were now a natural part of him. As he did so the black leather flaps of his wings unfurled, their edges, too, razor sharp. When he spoke, his voice was deep, gruff, as if it arose out of a dark pit.
"What are your orders, my Master?" Priet wondered at himself, trying to control what he said next, but unable to move against the force which controlled him, "Speak, that I may obey!"
Gerion looked at the devil before him. The transformation was perfect. Priet was now powerful, a warrior that would be able to defeat most others in battle. He circled him, marvelling at how the power had shaped him, at how his own desires had seized control of the process to not only direct the transformation of his body, but of his mind too.
"You are no longer Priet. From now on, you shall be known as Ger'liek. Now go, and bring Redili to me; alive if you can, dead otherwise."
Within the mind of Priet, the last shreds of his will blew away, like cobwebs in a storm. Ger'liek, Gerion's spawn. So be it, I live to serve. With a bow of his head, his powerful feet dug into the ground and talons on his feet cracked the marble underfoot. Legs bent, and then propelled him into the sky, his dark wings flapping as he sped towards his unsuspecting prey. He smiled, it felt good to be the hunter.
***
Jeria, Mekior and Gyv looked out onto a vista of pain. The cavern floor disappeared a few paces away from them, as it opened onto sights that assailed the eye and mind. Vast rivers of lava flowed beneath, basalt islands jutted out, crowned by huts of black rock. On the outside of each hut was a pole from which a creature of some description hung, some by their hands, some by their legs, some by hooks piercing various parts of their bodies. All were alive, but in various states of disrepair. All voiced their pain: in screams, in moans, in pleading cries to the unyielding heavens.
A chuckle behind them caused them to turn, and come face to face with a truly fearsome being. His skin was so pale as to be almost translucent, veins of red visible through the thin, white veneer. His eyes were colourless, except for the dancing red flames of his pupils. His hair, too, was colourless, cascading down over his naked body, emphasising the sculpted muscles, the obvious beauty of the body and the face, if the odd, translucent, skin could just be coloured to something less strange. The horror came at his waist. The being's entire form changed, his two legs reminiscent of a vulture's; thin, spindly, covered in scales of yellow with a sickly green caste. The feet, too, were those of a massive raptor, but the nails were iron and they left thick, black ooze behind as the creature walked. Too, the fearsomeness of the creature was enhanced by its stench; a stench that burnt their noses, causing them to cough and gag.
"Welcome to the domain of the triumvirate. Thank you for accepting our invitation." His face remained impassive, leaving the three companions with enough time to take stock of the situation.
Jeria took control, finding it easiest to disregard the creature's stench and stand straight.
"What invitation? It is against our wills that we stand here. Who are you and what is this place?" He swept his arms round, encompassing the cavern, and the scene behind him. With a start, he realised that where the chasm had been before there was now just a blank cave wall. "What..."
As he started to speak, the creature opened its mouth emitting; a low, deep- throated growl, which tapered off as his forked tongue licked his lips and traced itself over razor sharp fangs.
"I was just being pleasant. Many of the Triumvirate's guests appreciate the images of our lost home. You speak the truth, giving voice to reality, conjuring the images of your hostility. The Triumverate has spoken, and ordered. You will stay here as long as the Triumvirate decides. Hope that they choose to meet with you soon. We have little of your type of food here and will have to feed you slaves of your own race."
Gyv looked at him in horror, her hand moving towards her sword. Mekior reached out, laying his hand onto her arm, restraining her from taking action.
"You threaten us, yet clearly we are wanted here. Let us stop this posturing and get the meeting done with. After all, are you offering those who are Masters here for my dinner?"
The creature looked at Mekior, eyes narrowed. A few moments passed in silence before flames danced around Mekior, not burning but passing through him, shredding the illusion that cloaked him, unravelling it for all to see. The human form known to Gyv and Jeria slowly melted away, the illusion dissipating in the magical flames. Mekior stood before them in his natural form. He was no taller nor was the build of his body any different. His skin was green scales, most of it covered by his clothes and armour, but where it was visible, it shimmered slightly in the light. Around his eyes, thick, bone like ridges protected deep sunken orbs of yellow and black, his nose no more than two slits above a wide mouth filled with sharp teeth. His hands sported seven fingers each, each one long and slender surmounted with stiletto like claws that looked metallic.
"Renegade. You should not be here. Our Masters do not appreciate your kind. Far too many times we have offered places to your ilk, and too many times have we been turned down. Tread softly, Renegade."
He bowed, the gesture comically done, clearly a bow of mockery and derision. "Come, you will be shown to guest quarters where you can prepare for your interview with the Triumvirate."
He marched off, leaving the three travellers with no choice, but to follow where he led. Their complete lack of choices was highlighted by the high-pitched s
ing of the little devil behind them. The scrapping of poles on stones as four devils, wielding halberds, moved towards them from hidden recesses within the walls emphasised their position. Seeing no choice, the three followed, leaving the cavern through the single visible opening, entering into the flickering light beyond.***
Outside the Fort of Peaks, D'Fir stood and watched as the sky lit up. A beam of red light shot into the sky, accompanied by an ear-piercing note. From the ranks behind him Sister Egrit arrived, her face flushed, as six of the Gir’Thia arrived behind her.
"Our allies have arrived." Her disdain for the Gir'Thia was obvious, as was the amusement of the Gir’Thia at her continued discomfort in their presence. Their commander stepped forward, his face showing as much pleasure as its emaciated, fiendish brow would allow. Baring his fangs in a hideous parody of a smile he placed his arm on Sister Egrit's shoulder and addressed D'Fir.
"Prince, as my friend here has said, we have arrived. I am Commander Hulia. My squad and I will go first to clear the gatehouse and open the way for your men. Once that is done, we can all have fun in the massacre to follow."
D'Fir was about to reply when Sister Egrit spoke up, angrily pushing the fiend's arm from her shoulder.
"We will not have fun in there! Yes, it will be a massacre, but unlike the fiends, we will be merciful in our killing. Make the strikes swift, clean and deadly. Let us not leave them in lingering agony or perpetual pain." She looked at D'Fir, "Order your men so, or I will leave, and take the mages of the Tower Arcane with me!"
D'Fir sighed. The combined support of the devils and angels was a blessing, but a curse as well. "Commander Hulia, do you think you can restrain your troops, have them kill, but not torture or maim? If you can, do so. Sister Egrit, I will pass that order to my men, but can make no promises for the excesses that arise in battle."
***
The battle for the Fort of Peaks was short, and bloody. Those few devils that manned the massive gate house, complacent and smug in their remote fortress, lasted not even an eye blink as the Gir'Thia, elite warriors and far deadlier than the poor guards, waded into them, scythes flickering in the light of the hearth fires, scattering fiendish blood across the room in rivulets of death.
The inhabitants of the Fort fared no better. The dwarves, mages, angels and fiends rampaged through. All within died, put to the sword, their bodies piled in the centre of the gate to Crossroads, their hearts used to send them onwards, a message that the Fort had fallen. If some appeared to have been dismembered and cut multiple times before they died, nobody said anything. After all, who can control the excesses of battle, particularly after three thousand years of suffering? With axe and pick, the dwarves attacked the mighty arch once their deed was completed. To retake the city, the fiends would have to come the long way round.
Outside of Crossroads, the battle was at a standstill. Hilo stood at the gates, looking at the ranked dwarves below. Occasional rocks flew over his head as their catapults sang their song, but damage was minimal, merely cosmetic now that the mage that had attacked lay dead. He smiled; behind the gate his forces gathered, ready for their counter attack. He frowned as he heard the Gate sing, the high-pitched note of it opening from the other side.
Turning, he saw the pile of bodies come through the arch, and then the flickering as the Gate closed once again. Turning back to the dwarves outside, he roared in despair. Slowly, methodically, he saw the emaciated form of fiends move amongst them, each removing a portion of his foe from the field of battle.
"We have been tricked! Open the gate and get those who remain!" He looked out, despairing. My life is forfeit this day. Jelial will not forgive me for this defeat, even though I just followed the orders he gave.
He watched as his troops engaged the paltry remains of the besieging army, and then he turned, gathering his power to take himself elsewhere. With Jelial wanting him dead, he would need a new patron. Perhaps the renegades would welcome him within their ranks.
Ghostknight
First Post
Chapter 23
Jelial sat in darkness. The table before him was empty; scraps of paper littered the floor, shreds of despatches bearing the bad news, the same message within them all: Defeat. It had been over two thousand years since the last time the pathetic, soft, fit-for-nothing but the table inhabitants of this world had launched an attack. He fumed in the darkness, the heat of his anger finding its way into his skin, scorching the wood of the table. The smell of the burnt and smouldering wood brought him to his senses.
Where is that imbecile Hilo? When he appears, he will tell me everything, including why he decided to betray me to the dwarves! He stood and moved from his study into the neighbouring bedroom, his thoughts on betrayal and treachery. The Fort of Peaks had fallen, Priet was missing, Redili had yet to appear and Gerion remained obedient, but, as always, hidden and enigmatic, his mind too powerful for him to pick at like he did with so many of his other powerful servitors. He mused on Gerion, on his loyalty, or probable lack thereof. His mind turned to Ger City, the temple turned to Gerion’s use, and the fact that there was a font within, combined with the additional issue that Gerion had the arcane knowledge and power to not just use the font, but to manipulate it. I should never have allowed it to be built, never allowed Gerion access to such power.
***
Redili was an oxymoron, defying all expectations that people thought of when they thought of the devils that ruled the world. His appearance was that of a handsome man. Jet-black hair cascaded down over his shoulders; deep blue eyes peered out of a face, which appeared kind, rounded cheeks defining a benevolent look. The sole indication of his fiendish nature- his pupils that blazed and set the centre of those delicate blue orbs aflame, bright enough to glow in the dark.
His benign appearance belied his deadly nature. Since he had not been blessed with the deadly weapons and form of his fellow fiends, he had mastered every kind of weapon known, and some that were unknown to all save a few. His fiendish blood had not left him bereft of all defences; his reflexes and speed were unbelievable, even to other fiends. He sat drinking an exquisite wine, the vintage fruity and flavourful. He leaned back, wondering when next he would receive a summons from his Master, when next his skills would be called on.
"Redili." The voice was soft, but deep and hoarse, reminding him of the sounds of rock grating beneath the earth. He turned to contemplate the speaker, a large fiend, evidently bred as a warrior.
"Ahh, welcome. You are not Jelial's normal messenger. Where's Priet?" Redili stood, making sure the twin blades on his back could move easily. He did not know if the fiend before him meant him ill, but millennia as an assassin for Jelial bred caution.
"I was Priet, but no longer. Gerion requests your presence." Ger'liek stood before Redili, enjoying the look of shock on his face.
"Does Jelial know of this?" Redili spoke, looking at the changed Priet before him. He stepped back, hands on the hilts of his swords.
"Redili, you know better. Jelial liked me as a powerless little pawn. I had no desire to be so for all eternity. Gerion is a far better Master. Now, come, he wants you to visit.” He paused, “Alive or dead."
Redili moved. The blades were a blur, a hum accompanying their movement through the air. Ger'liek started in amazement as he moved back, bringing his arms up defensively. The blades slid off his arm's blade and the two fiends stood looking at each other for a moment. Ger'liek smiled and moved forward, leaning into the blades, bringing his superior weight and power to bear.
Redili showed no sign of emotion, merely moving in such a manner that Ger'liek, suddenly off balance, fell forward and his head parted company with his body as the blades spun in the air.
Redili looked at the body and shook his head. Somebody is going to have to tell Jelial he needs a new messenger.
***
Mekior, Gyv and Jeria followed the fiend through the cavernous complex. The passages were built on a massive scale, the reason for that apparent when a pair of fiends of immense size passed them, filling even the giant sized passage with their presence. The size of the complex left them bewildered, as did the obvious homogenous nature of the inhabitants. They saw thousands of fiends, yet they were all of but a few different forms.
"I've heard of this kind of fiendish set-up." Mekior talked low, hoping not to be overheard. "Fiendish armies bred for war. Each one is bred with abilities for a specific purpose. They are fanatical followers of their Master, the transformation controlled by the fiend that does it, their minds warped to undying loyalty at the same time. None but the Lords of Hell are meant to know how to do it."
Jeria looked at Mekior, thinking back to what Secheriab had told them.
"It's them, isn't it? We're amongst the Fallen. What I don't get is this; if they are all so fanatically loyal, what is the talk of a triumvirate? What has happened to Aspith?"
Mekior remained silent, his silent glance at Jeria enough to convey his surprise at Jeria's suggestion. "I have no idea. Honestly, I had not made the leap you had. Its obvious once you consider it."
Their guide halted before two immense doors. Easily fifty feet high, and as least twice that wide, their surface of burnished copper gleamed; lines of precious gems producing scintillating bands of light. Their guide stepped up, banging on the doors twice with each hand. Silently the doors swung open, and a smoke filled hall was revealed beyond. The smoke carried scents of perfumes and burning herbs, the thin reedy sounds of some unknown musical instrument producing atonal notes that hurt their ears.
"Go within. I will go no further."
The three companions stepped into the dimly lit hall. A thick, blue carpet led down the centre. Nothing was visible to them in the murky, smoke filled interior, save the tall, copper braziers from which the pungent smoke poured. They walked down the aisle, sensing, rather than seeing, the hidden inhabitants that watched, evaluated and judged them.
As they marched down the aisle, a large, raised dais came into view. Three thrones sat upon it, but only one was occupied. The stairs up to the dais were lined with devils, each wearing armour with red glowing runes upon them, the armour having the unmistakeable shine of silver-steel. The three approached the dais, bowing in greeting as they reached its bottom.
The seated figure stood. He was a work of art; skin the colour of alabaster, his body a work of perfection in tone and shape. His eyes were golden, his hair the colour of the sun. Massive, majestic white wings came from his back. His legs were clothed in a rich, shimmering metallic pants, and his feet sheathed in slippers of gold and silver, the thread reflecting the light that fell upon him, as if a single beam from the roof highlighted his figure.
Only when he descended did his size become obvious; this angelic being stood at least fifteen feet tall. His voice came out, musical and entrancing in its very utterance.
"I greet you all and welcome you to my home. I, Aspith, master of the three, bid you welcome." With a simple gesture the oppressive dimness of the hall lifted as torches flared into life around him. The player of the unknown instrument was revealed, sitting on a cushion behind the throne, a long, tall contraption with multiple strings and buttons before him. From the sides, dozens of courtiers came forward, fiendish features garbed and hidden within richly styled garments, their flowing nature hiding much of the forms of the wearers.
This is Aspith? He appears as an Angel of legend, hardly what one would think of a devil that had challenged one of the Lords of Hell! Jeria regarded the figure before him, silent in his contemplation. Amidst the inaction of Mekior and Jeria, it was Gyv who took upon herself the role of diplomat and stepped forward and bowed yet again.
"We bring word and greeting from the Free cities of the North. As their representatives, we beg your recognition of our embassy." As she finished speaking, she sank to one knee, as did Mekior and Jeria. Aspith looked at the three before him a smile upon his face.
"Indeed. I recognise your embassy. It is past time that your cities learnt of me. But you make for a strange group: A fiend, a half fiend and one that has been misused by fiends. One hopes that you are not truly representative of your home."
Jeria looked up at Aspith, at that strangely angelic face upon the devil lord.
"No, your lordship. We are a strange group even for our homes. I am one of but a rare few half-fiends that survive the tribulations of childhood, and until recently we were not aware of our friend's true blood."
Aspith laughed, its musical sound uplifting the spirits of all lucky enough to hear it. "Truly, I had heard as much. Never fear, but know that you are welcomed guests at my court." He winked at them, "I don't know if you remember the millennia old custom of harbouring guests, but within this court such customs are remembered and followed. You need fear no attack, no harm, for such would be dishonourable and is forbidden by the code. For now, court will be adjourned for the day, and you three shall retire with me to my private suites where we can talk at our leisure. Come now; stand up, all three of you. Be welcomed and make merry. "
The three stood, watching as Aspith turned, making a quick sign with his hand. Quickly the music changed to a brisk march, and hidden trumpeters joined in. Moving silently, those courtiers that had made themselves known left, the torches dimming and the braziers of smoke falling into quiescence as the hall emptied. The smiling Aspith turned away from the companions, heading to the side of the hall and a set of smaller doors. Made of iron, these doors were still tall enough for him to pass through. The room beyond was lit by floating globes of light, the walls adorned with brightly painted scenes of the outside world. Where the paint had worn thin, the hint of the underlying iron and lead were visible. Around the edges stood relief maps, in the centre a small table laden with foodstuffs and surrounded by eight chairs, high-backed and padded.
Aspith moved ahead and took a seat at the table, choosing a chair in the centre, rather than the one at the head. He settled in, waiting for the others to take their seats. When they did so, they noticed the size of the chairs for the first time; it had not been apparent from the outset, as everything in the room seemed similarly sized. As they sat, their feet did not touch the floor, they felt as children at play at their parent's table.
"I am sure you have many questions for me. Ask as we eat. It is not the custom here to avoid serious conversation during meals, not as is the custom within my cousin's court. I am sure that Secheriab kept you well entertained during meals, but frustrated! Speak. Ask what you will, I am hard to insult and will answer what you ask."
Jeria took a seat to the right of Aspith, wondering at the casual, friendly attitude of the fiendish lord and his knowledge that they had been sent by Secheriab. Gyv sat to his left and Mekior took a seat opposite him. As they took their places, a servant appeared from a hidden niche, filling their glasses with a clear, amber liquid.
"Your Majesty, if I may ask. Your servants refer to a triumvirate, and there were three thrones in your court, yet you sit alone and seem ready to treat with us alone. Are you ruler here or not?"
Gyv gave Jeria a sharp look and Mekior's sharp intake of breath told Jeria what they thought of his audacity. Aspith, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed by the question.
"It's historical. I have no way of knowing how much you have been told, but from what you said on your way here, it would appear you know something of my rebellion. It is sad, really. If I had won, I would not have ruled alone. My consort would have sat at my side, my brother ruling alongside us. Sadly, they both fell as we fled. I choose to revere their memories in this fashion." He paused to drink from his wine, watching for a reaction. He continued speaking. "Let me answer a question you all want to ask, but do not want to venture for fear of causing offence. I see your looks and your wonder. How does a fiend bear the appearance and the voice of an angel?"
He stood, pacing the room, stopping behind each chair on his circuit before turning to face them.
"I presume you have all heard of Gerogh. Few know much of him, but Gerogh is still alive. He is probably the singularly most powerful half-fiend outside of the Hells; not too surprising, considering the fact that his mother was one of the most powerful angels to ever live. For an age, his parents, a redeemed devil and an angel, upset the plans of the Lords of Hell, until the Lords tired of them and sent an army to destroy them. In the ensuing war, both his parents and all his siblings were destroyed. Gerogh escaped, hiding somewhere within the different planes of reality. Somewhere, somehow, he sired children; my brother and I. I returned to Hell, seeking to avenge my grandparents. Only a portion of his power was passed down to me, but it was enough for me to be able to establish my presence within the hierarchy of the Nine, and eventually challenge them for their power."
"Gerogh is your father? The same Gerogh whose prophesies have come down through the years?" Jeria's voice was clearly disbelieving, his tone one of derision. "You, a fiend, wish us to believe that not only does Gerogh carry the blood of fiends, but that you are his son? What proof do you offer of this remarkable claim?"
"None that would have any meaning to anyone, half-fiend. I ask you to believe your eyes. My grandmother was an angel, my father a half-angel and my mother an angel. It shows, does it not? Yet the mix of fiendish blood enhances me beyond the might of most angels. The angelic blood lifts me up beyond the power of most fiends. Just as your fiendish blood lifts you beyond the power of mere mortals, and your mortal blood gives you power that fiends cannot match." He smiled, his eyes appraising Jeria. "There is untapped power within you. If you live long enough you may even learn how to use it. No matter, on to more important matters."
"You came here seeking me, seeking hidden cities. You found both, but in essence they are the same. I have long ruled these cities below. All six of them are under my control; the moment you entered that marketplace and were placed within their dungeons, I knew of you and started researching you, and why you might be here. I can guess at much, but would rather hear it from you."
Jeria started to speak, but was restrained by Gyv. "We believe you, your Lordship. We came seeking you, seeking an ally. We hope that we can come to an agreement. The time has come to strike back at Jelial, to take back this world before there is nothing left to take back."
Jeria spoke up, not letting Gyv restrain him, "You have knowledge that would be welcomed, forces that would aid immensely in the coming battles. If you are truly in control of the cities within these wards, then you have access to even greater resources than we knew." He paused, looking at Aspith, sizing him up.
"Your knowledge of Gerogh may aid us in deciphering his prophecies, and that knowledge may even help us to win this war."
"Never trust in prophecies. They are fickle, subject to change if some key player knows too much and acts in conflict with them. I acted myself while believing in prophecies, believing that one day I was destined to rule, to dethrone the nine that hold Hell in their grasp. You can see what that brought for me! No, prophecies are best left alone, events will happen as predicted, or they will not. Either way we must continue on our journey."
"But can we trust one such as you?" Mekior's musing tone broke into the conversation, his forked tongue creating strange sounds as he spoke. "Jeria is honest in his looks; his heritage can be seen plainly, he wears it on the outside. On the inside he is true."
"Meaning that he is foul to look at but fair within and I am fair without, and foul within? A fair concern, Renegade. You are just going to have to trust me if I am to be your ally. Think on this Renegade. I have lived on this planet for longer than most human civilisations existed, before the coming of Jelial. I have no desire to see a tenth Lord of Hell ruling from this place. I will tell you what I want in return for my help."
He paused, aware of the dramatic effect of his words.
"I want my own kingdom. I want recognition as a ruler and a place on this world where I, and my followers, can live without the hostility of every surrounding kingdom and race. I want my people to be accepted as just another group in the multitudinous mix that makes up this world. Do you think that would be possible? Don't answer now, but take this offer back to your council. Let me know what their decision is. Either way your status as Ambassadors will remain intact. You need not fear returning here."
Conversation continued, but there did not seem much more to be say after the revelations of Aspith. They ate the food and drank the wine. In the end, the companions were escorted to their quarters for the night. Again they were faced with the dilemma, to believe or to disbelieve, and yet again the choice was put in front of them by a being of immeasurable power from Hell.
Jelial sat in darkness. The table before him was empty; scraps of paper littered the floor, shreds of despatches bearing the bad news, the same message within them all: Defeat. It had been over two thousand years since the last time the pathetic, soft, fit-for-nothing but the table inhabitants of this world had launched an attack. He fumed in the darkness, the heat of his anger finding its way into his skin, scorching the wood of the table. The smell of the burnt and smouldering wood brought him to his senses.
Where is that imbecile Hilo? When he appears, he will tell me everything, including why he decided to betray me to the dwarves! He stood and moved from his study into the neighbouring bedroom, his thoughts on betrayal and treachery. The Fort of Peaks had fallen, Priet was missing, Redili had yet to appear and Gerion remained obedient, but, as always, hidden and enigmatic, his mind too powerful for him to pick at like he did with so many of his other powerful servitors. He mused on Gerion, on his loyalty, or probable lack thereof. His mind turned to Ger City, the temple turned to Gerion’s use, and the fact that there was a font within, combined with the additional issue that Gerion had the arcane knowledge and power to not just use the font, but to manipulate it. I should never have allowed it to be built, never allowed Gerion access to such power.
***
Redili was an oxymoron, defying all expectations that people thought of when they thought of the devils that ruled the world. His appearance was that of a handsome man. Jet-black hair cascaded down over his shoulders; deep blue eyes peered out of a face, which appeared kind, rounded cheeks defining a benevolent look. The sole indication of his fiendish nature- his pupils that blazed and set the centre of those delicate blue orbs aflame, bright enough to glow in the dark.
His benign appearance belied his deadly nature. Since he had not been blessed with the deadly weapons and form of his fellow fiends, he had mastered every kind of weapon known, and some that were unknown to all save a few. His fiendish blood had not left him bereft of all defences; his reflexes and speed were unbelievable, even to other fiends. He sat drinking an exquisite wine, the vintage fruity and flavourful. He leaned back, wondering when next he would receive a summons from his Master, when next his skills would be called on.
"Redili." The voice was soft, but deep and hoarse, reminding him of the sounds of rock grating beneath the earth. He turned to contemplate the speaker, a large fiend, evidently bred as a warrior.
"Ahh, welcome. You are not Jelial's normal messenger. Where's Priet?" Redili stood, making sure the twin blades on his back could move easily. He did not know if the fiend before him meant him ill, but millennia as an assassin for Jelial bred caution.
"I was Priet, but no longer. Gerion requests your presence." Ger'liek stood before Redili, enjoying the look of shock on his face.
"Does Jelial know of this?" Redili spoke, looking at the changed Priet before him. He stepped back, hands on the hilts of his swords.
"Redili, you know better. Jelial liked me as a powerless little pawn. I had no desire to be so for all eternity. Gerion is a far better Master. Now, come, he wants you to visit.” He paused, “Alive or dead."
Redili moved. The blades were a blur, a hum accompanying their movement through the air. Ger'liek started in amazement as he moved back, bringing his arms up defensively. The blades slid off his arm's blade and the two fiends stood looking at each other for a moment. Ger'liek smiled and moved forward, leaning into the blades, bringing his superior weight and power to bear.
Redili showed no sign of emotion, merely moving in such a manner that Ger'liek, suddenly off balance, fell forward and his head parted company with his body as the blades spun in the air.
Redili looked at the body and shook his head. Somebody is going to have to tell Jelial he needs a new messenger.
***
Mekior, Gyv and Jeria followed the fiend through the cavernous complex. The passages were built on a massive scale, the reason for that apparent when a pair of fiends of immense size passed them, filling even the giant sized passage with their presence. The size of the complex left them bewildered, as did the obvious homogenous nature of the inhabitants. They saw thousands of fiends, yet they were all of but a few different forms.
"I've heard of this kind of fiendish set-up." Mekior talked low, hoping not to be overheard. "Fiendish armies bred for war. Each one is bred with abilities for a specific purpose. They are fanatical followers of their Master, the transformation controlled by the fiend that does it, their minds warped to undying loyalty at the same time. None but the Lords of Hell are meant to know how to do it."
Jeria looked at Mekior, thinking back to what Secheriab had told them.
"It's them, isn't it? We're amongst the Fallen. What I don't get is this; if they are all so fanatically loyal, what is the talk of a triumvirate? What has happened to Aspith?"
Mekior remained silent, his silent glance at Jeria enough to convey his surprise at Jeria's suggestion. "I have no idea. Honestly, I had not made the leap you had. Its obvious once you consider it."
Their guide halted before two immense doors. Easily fifty feet high, and as least twice that wide, their surface of burnished copper gleamed; lines of precious gems producing scintillating bands of light. Their guide stepped up, banging on the doors twice with each hand. Silently the doors swung open, and a smoke filled hall was revealed beyond. The smoke carried scents of perfumes and burning herbs, the thin reedy sounds of some unknown musical instrument producing atonal notes that hurt their ears.
"Go within. I will go no further."
The three companions stepped into the dimly lit hall. A thick, blue carpet led down the centre. Nothing was visible to them in the murky, smoke filled interior, save the tall, copper braziers from which the pungent smoke poured. They walked down the aisle, sensing, rather than seeing, the hidden inhabitants that watched, evaluated and judged them.
As they marched down the aisle, a large, raised dais came into view. Three thrones sat upon it, but only one was occupied. The stairs up to the dais were lined with devils, each wearing armour with red glowing runes upon them, the armour having the unmistakeable shine of silver-steel. The three approached the dais, bowing in greeting as they reached its bottom.
The seated figure stood. He was a work of art; skin the colour of alabaster, his body a work of perfection in tone and shape. His eyes were golden, his hair the colour of the sun. Massive, majestic white wings came from his back. His legs were clothed in a rich, shimmering metallic pants, and his feet sheathed in slippers of gold and silver, the thread reflecting the light that fell upon him, as if a single beam from the roof highlighted his figure.
Only when he descended did his size become obvious; this angelic being stood at least fifteen feet tall. His voice came out, musical and entrancing in its very utterance.
"I greet you all and welcome you to my home. I, Aspith, master of the three, bid you welcome." With a simple gesture the oppressive dimness of the hall lifted as torches flared into life around him. The player of the unknown instrument was revealed, sitting on a cushion behind the throne, a long, tall contraption with multiple strings and buttons before him. From the sides, dozens of courtiers came forward, fiendish features garbed and hidden within richly styled garments, their flowing nature hiding much of the forms of the wearers.
This is Aspith? He appears as an Angel of legend, hardly what one would think of a devil that had challenged one of the Lords of Hell! Jeria regarded the figure before him, silent in his contemplation. Amidst the inaction of Mekior and Jeria, it was Gyv who took upon herself the role of diplomat and stepped forward and bowed yet again.
"We bring word and greeting from the Free cities of the North. As their representatives, we beg your recognition of our embassy." As she finished speaking, she sank to one knee, as did Mekior and Jeria. Aspith looked at the three before him a smile upon his face.
"Indeed. I recognise your embassy. It is past time that your cities learnt of me. But you make for a strange group: A fiend, a half fiend and one that has been misused by fiends. One hopes that you are not truly representative of your home."
Jeria looked up at Aspith, at that strangely angelic face upon the devil lord.
"No, your lordship. We are a strange group even for our homes. I am one of but a rare few half-fiends that survive the tribulations of childhood, and until recently we were not aware of our friend's true blood."
Aspith laughed, its musical sound uplifting the spirits of all lucky enough to hear it. "Truly, I had heard as much. Never fear, but know that you are welcomed guests at my court." He winked at them, "I don't know if you remember the millennia old custom of harbouring guests, but within this court such customs are remembered and followed. You need fear no attack, no harm, for such would be dishonourable and is forbidden by the code. For now, court will be adjourned for the day, and you three shall retire with me to my private suites where we can talk at our leisure. Come now; stand up, all three of you. Be welcomed and make merry. "
The three stood, watching as Aspith turned, making a quick sign with his hand. Quickly the music changed to a brisk march, and hidden trumpeters joined in. Moving silently, those courtiers that had made themselves known left, the torches dimming and the braziers of smoke falling into quiescence as the hall emptied. The smiling Aspith turned away from the companions, heading to the side of the hall and a set of smaller doors. Made of iron, these doors were still tall enough for him to pass through. The room beyond was lit by floating globes of light, the walls adorned with brightly painted scenes of the outside world. Where the paint had worn thin, the hint of the underlying iron and lead were visible. Around the edges stood relief maps, in the centre a small table laden with foodstuffs and surrounded by eight chairs, high-backed and padded.
Aspith moved ahead and took a seat at the table, choosing a chair in the centre, rather than the one at the head. He settled in, waiting for the others to take their seats. When they did so, they noticed the size of the chairs for the first time; it had not been apparent from the outset, as everything in the room seemed similarly sized. As they sat, their feet did not touch the floor, they felt as children at play at their parent's table.
"I am sure you have many questions for me. Ask as we eat. It is not the custom here to avoid serious conversation during meals, not as is the custom within my cousin's court. I am sure that Secheriab kept you well entertained during meals, but frustrated! Speak. Ask what you will, I am hard to insult and will answer what you ask."
Jeria took a seat to the right of Aspith, wondering at the casual, friendly attitude of the fiendish lord and his knowledge that they had been sent by Secheriab. Gyv sat to his left and Mekior took a seat opposite him. As they took their places, a servant appeared from a hidden niche, filling their glasses with a clear, amber liquid.
"Your Majesty, if I may ask. Your servants refer to a triumvirate, and there were three thrones in your court, yet you sit alone and seem ready to treat with us alone. Are you ruler here or not?"
Gyv gave Jeria a sharp look and Mekior's sharp intake of breath told Jeria what they thought of his audacity. Aspith, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed by the question.
"It's historical. I have no way of knowing how much you have been told, but from what you said on your way here, it would appear you know something of my rebellion. It is sad, really. If I had won, I would not have ruled alone. My consort would have sat at my side, my brother ruling alongside us. Sadly, they both fell as we fled. I choose to revere their memories in this fashion." He paused to drink from his wine, watching for a reaction. He continued speaking. "Let me answer a question you all want to ask, but do not want to venture for fear of causing offence. I see your looks and your wonder. How does a fiend bear the appearance and the voice of an angel?"
He stood, pacing the room, stopping behind each chair on his circuit before turning to face them.
"I presume you have all heard of Gerogh. Few know much of him, but Gerogh is still alive. He is probably the singularly most powerful half-fiend outside of the Hells; not too surprising, considering the fact that his mother was one of the most powerful angels to ever live. For an age, his parents, a redeemed devil and an angel, upset the plans of the Lords of Hell, until the Lords tired of them and sent an army to destroy them. In the ensuing war, both his parents and all his siblings were destroyed. Gerogh escaped, hiding somewhere within the different planes of reality. Somewhere, somehow, he sired children; my brother and I. I returned to Hell, seeking to avenge my grandparents. Only a portion of his power was passed down to me, but it was enough for me to be able to establish my presence within the hierarchy of the Nine, and eventually challenge them for their power."
"Gerogh is your father? The same Gerogh whose prophesies have come down through the years?" Jeria's voice was clearly disbelieving, his tone one of derision. "You, a fiend, wish us to believe that not only does Gerogh carry the blood of fiends, but that you are his son? What proof do you offer of this remarkable claim?"
"None that would have any meaning to anyone, half-fiend. I ask you to believe your eyes. My grandmother was an angel, my father a half-angel and my mother an angel. It shows, does it not? Yet the mix of fiendish blood enhances me beyond the might of most angels. The angelic blood lifts me up beyond the power of most fiends. Just as your fiendish blood lifts you beyond the power of mere mortals, and your mortal blood gives you power that fiends cannot match." He smiled, his eyes appraising Jeria. "There is untapped power within you. If you live long enough you may even learn how to use it. No matter, on to more important matters."
"You came here seeking me, seeking hidden cities. You found both, but in essence they are the same. I have long ruled these cities below. All six of them are under my control; the moment you entered that marketplace and were placed within their dungeons, I knew of you and started researching you, and why you might be here. I can guess at much, but would rather hear it from you."
Jeria started to speak, but was restrained by Gyv. "We believe you, your Lordship. We came seeking you, seeking an ally. We hope that we can come to an agreement. The time has come to strike back at Jelial, to take back this world before there is nothing left to take back."
Jeria spoke up, not letting Gyv restrain him, "You have knowledge that would be welcomed, forces that would aid immensely in the coming battles. If you are truly in control of the cities within these wards, then you have access to even greater resources than we knew." He paused, looking at Aspith, sizing him up.
"Your knowledge of Gerogh may aid us in deciphering his prophecies, and that knowledge may even help us to win this war."
"Never trust in prophecies. They are fickle, subject to change if some key player knows too much and acts in conflict with them. I acted myself while believing in prophecies, believing that one day I was destined to rule, to dethrone the nine that hold Hell in their grasp. You can see what that brought for me! No, prophecies are best left alone, events will happen as predicted, or they will not. Either way we must continue on our journey."
"But can we trust one such as you?" Mekior's musing tone broke into the conversation, his forked tongue creating strange sounds as he spoke. "Jeria is honest in his looks; his heritage can be seen plainly, he wears it on the outside. On the inside he is true."
"Meaning that he is foul to look at but fair within and I am fair without, and foul within? A fair concern, Renegade. You are just going to have to trust me if I am to be your ally. Think on this Renegade. I have lived on this planet for longer than most human civilisations existed, before the coming of Jelial. I have no desire to see a tenth Lord of Hell ruling from this place. I will tell you what I want in return for my help."
He paused, aware of the dramatic effect of his words.
"I want my own kingdom. I want recognition as a ruler and a place on this world where I, and my followers, can live without the hostility of every surrounding kingdom and race. I want my people to be accepted as just another group in the multitudinous mix that makes up this world. Do you think that would be possible? Don't answer now, but take this offer back to your council. Let me know what their decision is. Either way your status as Ambassadors will remain intact. You need not fear returning here."
Conversation continued, but there did not seem much more to be say after the revelations of Aspith. They ate the food and drank the wine. In the end, the companions were escorted to their quarters for the night. Again they were faced with the dilemma, to believe or to disbelieve, and yet again the choice was put in front of them by a being of immeasurable power from Hell.
Need_A_Life
First Post
Interesting...
Interesting, indeed...
Interesting, indeed...
Rikandur Azebol
First Post
Ghostknight ... You certainly tired of all this praise, but forgive me. It's good ! I would wish to have a talent like Yourself for story-telling. 
My friendly-envy remains fuelled to maximum. Not that I mind much ... keep up the good work and I might overcame my faults after examples made by luminaries like Yourself and BLACKDIRGE.
My friendly-envy remains fuelled to maximum. Not that I mind much ... keep up the good work and I might overcame my faults after examples made by luminaries like Yourself and BLACKDIRGE.
Ghostknight
First Post
Rikandur Azebol said:Ghostknight ... You certainly tired of all this praise, but forgive me. It's good ! I would wish to have a talent like Yourself for story-telling.
Nah- us writers have fragile egos, we love the praise
Rikandur Azebol said:My friendly-envy remains fuelled to maximum. Not that I mind much ... keep up the good work and I might overcame my faults after examples made by luminaries like Yourself and BLACKDIRGE.
Go ahead and do it- I only started writing this after I got inspired by Blackdirge. I kept wondering if there was room for pure fiction rather than campaign writeups or campaign adaptations into fiction (Ala LazyBones story hours- very much worth reading!) Go ahead, take the plunge- it won't ruin your life that much... (Ok, truthfully, my wife moans when I get too involved in writing and stay up till all hours of the morning...
)
