Rule of Darkness -Book II Chapter 3 Last Update 19 June 2008- Book I Completed

[Ghostknight]

Chapter 28

I'm going to be away tomorrow- so you get tomorrow's chapter early...

*****

The gates rose slowly, accompanied by the groaning of chains as the massive iron portcullis lifted. As it rose, the sea of cold-iron-tipped pikes, borne by heavily armoured dwarven infantry, came into sight. Behind them sat more dwarves, astride heavily armoured miniature war-horses, especially bred for their stature.

The fiendish cavalry arrayed themselves opposite them, awaiting their emergence. Many of the infantry that marched with the beasts bearing the scaling ladders turned and faced them, their helmets hiding their features. It seemed as if the battle paused, as if those who still strived for the walls, only to be destroyed by the blasts of the cadres of angels, had ceased to be of consequence.

A cloud of arrows signalled the charge, the voices of the dwarves rose into a massive roar as they moved forward in unison. The arrows clattered ineffectually off the black scales of the mounts, but where they found chinks in the armour of the riders, their cold iron tips spelt doom. The massive wall of pikes moved towards the fiendish cavalry that sat and watched, taking no action, silent amidst the chaos.

The fiendish infantry turned their covered faces towards the advancing dwarves. As a single unit, they drew their swords and pointed them towards the advancing dwarves. As one they began a chant, their words unclear, but chilling in their deep, guttural uttering. On the fortress walls, the blue clad mages of the Tower Arcane came together and started their own chant. As the sound of the fiends below came to an end, light shot from their swords, coalescing into a single solid beam that burnt a line across the ground towards the advancing pike men.

The beam swung, it turned towards the advancing soldiers, only to strike an invisible barrier that flared blue on contact. On the battlements, the mages stood, pooling their power, their voices rising and falling as they countered the power of the fiends. Slowly, under the cover of their shield, the pike men advanced, their pace steady, but it seemed they only crept forward as masses of fiends still pounded at the walls. The stand-off continued, the invisible shield slowly weakening, as the power of the fiends pounded at it. Above, one of the mages faltered, and fell to his knees, but he continued chanting as sweat poured from his face and a blood vessel in his nose broke, releasing a slow drip of blood to the ground below. Below, Idmus D'Haan, son of the General, watched the standoff, and worried. He saw the fiends, their massive numbers and their relaxed ranks while above the few mages were clearly showing signs of tiring.

"We have to stop this. The fiends outnumber our mages, and the mages will crumble if we cannot break the fiends." He spoke to the men that sat astride their mounts around him, the cavalry he had commanded for the last ten years. He said nothing, just couching his lance and waving the cavalry forward. Slowly the horses advanced, making their way through the ranks of the infantry until the way before them was clear.

Their charge was a bloody wedge that struck deep into the fiendish infantry who were concentrating on their spear of light. A whirlwind of destruction that cut through them, causing the spear to waver and then dissolve as they were forced to abandon their concentration and turn to defend themselves. The heavily armoured infantry did not strike towards the riders, rather aiming their swords at the bellies of their mounts, tumbling the riders to the grounds amidst the guts and blood of their horses.

The fiendish cavalry started their charge, hitting the now surrounded dwarven cavalry from the side; above them the massive fiends hurling rocks changed their aim, their rocks ploughing through the massed ranks of the dwarven infantry. The rocks cut off abruptly as the Gir'Thia chose this time to act, to enter into the melee of battle, their arcane power teleporting them to where the giant fiends stood. The black blades of their scythes shone red as their embedded runes flared, and the limbs and heads of the giants tumbled from their bodies, the surprise attack of the Gir’Thia too fast and too sure, its suddeness preventing them from acting.

Taken by surprise, the four-armed fiends, that were meant to protect the giant rock throwers, turned and charged towards the Gir'Thia, while the sorcerers turned and started their own incantations. The Gir'Thia awaited the arrival of the female fiends, their scythes weaving patterns before them. As the four armed fiends rushed up to them, the scythes flared green, their blades suddenly empowered to cut through other metals, cleaving through the thick shields that were supposed to offer resistance, but
were no more effective than a sheet of paper.

For a moment, it seemed that the dwarves that had taken the Fort of Peaks had the upper hand, but it was but a fleeting moment. The fiend's sorcerers turned their gaze to where the Gir'Thia fought, and from the clear sky lightning struck down, each bolt finding a target amongst the battling Gir'Thia, throwing them into the air, sending them burning to the ground; those Gir'Thia that survived the strike teleported away, to safety. On the field before the gate, the superior numbers of the fiends began to tell. Slowly, the cavalry led by Idmus D’Haan, were being decimated, while the fiendish cavalry had penetrated amongst the dwarven pike men, forcing them into similar tactics to the fiendish infantry; only the blades of their swords were not as effective as those of the fiends' had been against the dwarven mounts.

Gerion watched the battle, the smile on his face growing; victory would follow soon, it was but a matter of time. He did not mind the losses. After all, what were soldiers for but to die in order to secure his own glory?

***

At Harmony Hall, the clash of the forces was almost over. Beset by renegade fiends from their flanks, and the forces of Harmony Hall from the front, the forces of Jelial had been massacred, reduced to a few knots of resistance that, slowly and steadily, were being destroyed.

A massive fiend led one of these areas of resistance; his chain mail aglow with a faint green light, a similar sickly glow limned his massive sword. The fiend led his group slowly backwards, trying to make for the more open area at the back, and a chance at freedom. Gyv, flanked by Jeria and Blised moved to intercept the group, "Don't let them get away!"

Her voice was triumphant, breathless from the exertion of battle. Jeria grinned back, his own bloodlust at the fore from the extended battle. Blised remained silent, but followed eagerly. Mekior, fighting on his own, his fiendish form and armour covered in the blood of other fiends, spotted the form of Gyv moving towards the massive fiend. He looked from her to her target and spotted the green glow from the arms and armour. He leapt forward, trying to make his way towards her, stop her from engaging with the fiend, "Gyv, stop! His weapons are rune fed!" He screamed, all his strength, all his might behind his cry, but in the chaos of battle, in the noise and bedlam of battle, his voice was lost. She could not hear his anguished cry.

Gyv faced the massive fiend, her blade held before her. Next to her, Blised and Jeria hacked with their axes, the three providing each other with support, but enough space to move and fight without interfering with one another. Gyv turned and looked at the fiend, "Today you die, you piece of filth. Invading scum!" She moved, her sword dancing and, darting in to score a line against its armour, bending and displacing some links, but not penetrating.

The fiend moved its own sword back, smashing it against her blade, and, as it did so, the blade in Gyv's hand shattered. She cried out, watching as the blade darted forward, cutting across her stomach, spilling her guts onto the ground. She dropped down, her hands trying to hold in the intestines that spilled out. In a spray of blood and internal organs she fell to the ground.

Jeria turned as she fell and saw her body on the ground. His own cry of despair rang out, his axe smashing down on the fiend's helmet, only to rebound, the only damage being to stagger the fiend and send it stumbling back a few steps. It bared its teeth, sharp fangs visible. It darted forward again, its blade aimed at Jeria's chest. He pivoted at the last moment, so the blade that cut through his armour only scored a mark across his chest, throwing droplets of blood across his body, a few landing on the blade of his own axe.

Blised battled on, stopping the battle from coming near to them, using his massive size to keep the battle at bay, ensure that no fiends came to distract Jeria from his lethal foe.

Jeria and the fiend faced off, Jeria using his superior agility and mobility to keep its blade from scoring. Desperately, Jeria kept the fiend at bay, not knowing how he was going to bypass a weapon that would shatter his own, armour that seemed impenetrable to his axe. The wound across his chest burnt, and he spared a glance down, fearing that it was worse than he had at first thought, or that it was poisoned. He could feel it burn, feel his blood oozing out. So it was that he saw, for the first, as his blood started steaming, the blood evaporating into the air instead of falling to the ground.

Surprised at what he was seeing, he almost missed the thrust, but once again was able to turn away enough that he took only a cut across his forearm, the blood running down his arm, his wrist, along the axe shaft and onto his axe. This blood, too, began to boil and steam. He spun around, the axe almost slipping from his bloody grasp, but he managed to control it, guide the blade into the fiend's midriff. As it made contact, so too did some of his blood that flowed down the haft and onto the axe head, which exploded, with a loud bang and a bright flash that left him blinded.

When his sight cleared, Jeria stared at his foe, who lay dead, most of its body blown away, disintegrated in the blast. He stared at it, before passing out, falling senselessly to the ground, his head lying across the feet of Gyv's corpse.

***

General D'Haan stood with the kin upon the walls of Fort Livian. The night was passing and, as yet, there had been no sign of the devils. He turned to the king, his face a mix of emotions; disappointment vied with relief. He looked out, lost in thought, and then addressed D'Mier.

"I thought I was ready to die, to face my end. It seems that I am actually pleased that it will not be yet."

D'Mier looked over at his elderly uncle, a legendary soldier and commander in his own time. "I, too am glad. Dawn will come soon, and nothing will approach from the outside without our knowing of it."

The two turned, calmly walking from their post behind the crenulations to head back into the city. As they did so, Eria walked up to them.

"I come to take my leave, your Majesty. My Master has another errand for me, one more urgent than waiting for battle. "

He bowed, and disappeared from sight as he straightened.

D'Haan and D'Mier looked at where he had been, their thoughts flowing in the same pattern, why did Eria choose this moment to leave?

***

D'Fir looked over the battle, and saw the slow attrition of his forces, saw how soon they would be overrun, that no matter how they fought they would be defeated. He left his command post, tightening buckles and feeling the comforting weight of his axe in his hand. As he moved towards the battlements, he was flanked by Sister Egrit and Commander Hulia, both of whom now seemed content in each other's presence; the mutual foe beyond the walls enough to unite them for the moment.

"Let us die well. There may not be any of us left by the time the sun clears the hills, nor any to carry tales to bards to immortalise us, but the gods watch this day and will reward our valour."

Commander Hulia bowed, "Prince D'Fir, it has been an honour to serve with you. That is not something I would have ever thought to say to a mere mortal. But the time has come for me to leave. Already I have exceeded my orders. My Master never intended for the Gir'Thia to be lost in a battle of a minor outpost."

Sister Egrit gave him an incredulous look, and then a look of scorn crossed her face as first Hulia, and then the remaining Gir'Thia, teleported to safety. "Never fear, D'Fir. Neither I, nor my compatriots will desert you. Not in this time of need!"

"Ah, that is how it should be, devils deserting while angels stand firm." The voice came to them from above, musical and clear even in the noise of battle. D'Fir and Sister Egrit watched as the newcomer floated down on immense white wings, golden hair flowing behind. The huge figure landed before them and bowed.

"Look beyond your walls. Gerion is in for a surprise." The angelic figure smiled, golden eyes meeting theirs. "I am Aspith. I met with some friends of yours recently and I thought you might appreciate some help." At their shocked looks Aspith laughed.
"I am different to what you expected? Ah well, hopefully the same can be said of my forces that now assail Gerion's army."

The three moved to watch over the battlements. The battleground below was black with the devils of Gerion army. As they watched, flashes of blue light started appearing over the battlefield, each flash leaving a group of devils below. The immense fiends of Aspith's forces started moving outwards, each one with a line of blue light connecting them to a vulture-headed sorcerer. They wielded massive great-swords whose blades glowed dimly in the pre-dawn light. As they struck out, each blow killed the fiend to whom it was directed, every contact with a foe a burst of blue light, an explosion of destruction.

Overlooking this sudden reversal of fortune, Gerion looked over the field of battle, turning to his oval-headed sorcerer.

"Who are they? Show me those who stand and watch!"

Obedient to his master's commands, the sorcerer invoked his power, pooling his arcane might into a sphere of light that showed those who stood and watched.

"I don't know who they are, General, but it looks like a pair of angels talking to the leader of the dwarves."

Gerion inspected the two figures in the sphere and took a step back. He remembered a long ago battle, one in which the celestial light had been invoked. Surely that figure was the one that had sought to usurp the throne of Hell. But how? He was long thought dead. Why he would reappear here was far more important than winning this battle. He turned to the sorcerer, "No, only the one is. The other is one that sought to be a Lord of Hell and has long been believed to be dead! Abandon this battle. There are more important issues at stake than the retaking of the fortress."

He stared once more at the sphere, musing over the implications. "It seems that our foes grow bold, that old taboos have been put aside. Sound the recall; I must speak to Jelial with no further delay."

***

Jelial had grown tired of the revel and had taken to his throne, sitting in the dark of his court. He stared into space, his mind working, wondering what it would feel like if his plan succeeded. Thus, he was surprised when, without any bidding, the torches flared into life once more and Gerion marched towards him.

"I take it you have successfully retaken the Fort then? I am sure that is the task that was set." Jelial spoke softly, his voice just carrying to Gerion.

"No. We abandoned the attack." Gerion stopped speaking, seeing the fury on Jelial's face, "We abandoned it since we were attacked by a superior force, of devils."

"Devils? Who led them? Who could bring enough might to bear? Secheriab could not have brought through sufficient numbers for an army that size."

"Not Secheriab." Gerion's voice was almost gloating, "It was Aspith. It seems that the one time wannabe Lord of Hell fled here when his attempt to usurp the throne failed." Gerion watched as Jelial's face fell.

"Aspith? Here? But why wait so long? What has changed now?" Jelial looked at Gerion, the confusion clear, the implications of this turn of events shredding some of his carefully laid plans.

***

At Harmony Hall, the last of the fiends was being destroyed. A small group stood surrounded, watching as the renegade fiends slaughtered their comrades. One, more loyal than the rest and with just enough ability to do so, used his last moments to send a message to Jelial, "We have fallen. The renegades aid the mortals!" The communication died as claws from a renegade pulled his heart out through his mouth, silencing him forever.

 

[Ghostknight]

Chapter 29

The aftermath of the battle saw a triumphant city celebrating riotously into the night. Not all joined in the party, outside the city groups of soldiers laid out the bodies of their fallen in neat rows; each covered with a plain white shroud bearing the symbol of ultimate death. The bodies of the devils were thrown to one side, piled high in their anonymity. The renegades sorted through them, putting their own to one side for proper burial, leaving the rest for the carrion eaters.

In one corner Mekior sat, a scarred face resting upon his knee. He stared ahead, saying nothing, just stroking the hair still matted with the blood and dirt of the battlefield. His eyes were blank, dead. Deep within them, the fire danced. He looked up as Jeria arrived, contemplating the features of the half-breed.

"I tried to stop her, she did not hear." Mekior's voice was flat, toneless, devoid of any hint of emotion. "I saw the rune light from his sword and knew she would die if she faced him. But she didn't hear." He continued staring straight ahead, hands mechanically smoothing the hair that fell across his lap.

Jeria moved, and came to sit beside him, his gaze lost in the darkness of the cavern. He said nothing, his presence a companion to Mekior's grief. Eventually he reached across, his hand gripping the green scales of Mekior's hand.

"It is time to let go of her." Gently he clenched Mekior's hands in his, before moving them the side. Jeria stood, and turned to Mekior. "Help me bring her to the ultimate peace."

For a moment Mekior's blank stare didn't change and then he stood. He gently clasped Gyv's head within his cupped hands, as four bearers lifted her body, carrying her within the shroud of a hero laid over her body, an honour guard as she was brought to her final rest amongst the rest of the fallen that day- each name carefully recorded for eternal memorial. In silence they kept vigil, until the funeral pyres were lit and the ashes gathered to be buried in the centre of the city beneath the memorial to those who fought to keep the city free.

With the low tones of the funeral dirge still being chanted, those gathered to honour the dead turned as one, to face the city, their refuge from the dark outside. The crowd fell silent, returning in silence and contemplation to the city. For some, it was to return to the council chambers to discuss what next. To plan and to try to dispel the fear that next time Jelial would be successful.

***

"Prince D'Fir, your father awaits you." The steward looked over the Prince, noting the battle stained armour, the grimy axe and the dirt of the field stuck to his face and within his beard. He nodded in approval; such was the custom, that when a General returned triumphant, he should come to be honoured by the King still bearing the grime of the battlefield, as the king had been honoured by his actions upon that field.

D’Fir marched down the centre of the hall, the stones echoing the footfalls of his iron shod boots. At the throne, King D'Mir stood as his son approached. As D'Fir neared, he sank to his knee, his voice rising over the assembled nobles.

"All hail to Prince D'Fir! All laude my General who first won, and then held the Fort of Peaks." Amidst the tumultuous cheering of the assemblage, the King rose, reaching out to grasp his son's shoulder and turned him to face the assemblage, to accept their accolades, and to let him bask in their adoration. Soon the feasting would come, and the celebrations would cross the city. For some, a celebration of victory in a distant fort, for others a celebration of their continued life and the battle that never came; but there were also those that sat quietly upon low benches, with but the flickering of candles for company, mourning those whose funeral pyres had lit the sky in distant peaks.

All celebrations have to end, and so it was that three days later the council came together, sitting in session to decide on the future. King D'Mir looked over those present. Aside from the obligatory representatives from the noble families, the assemblage included General D'Haan, Prince D'Fir, Eria, Sister Egrit and Aspith. The King's gaze lingered first upon Eria and then Aspith. He understood Eria; felt comfortable that the devil was as expected, something understandable, but Aspith disturbed him. His angelic appearance at odds with what he knew of him, a powerful devil that had contended for the throne of Hell, and had been only defeated by the combined might of those that ruled.

"We stand at a historical cusp. Jelial has been defeated, even as he made a bid for greater power. Lord Aspith, we thank you for your help. Without your timely intervention, we would have been mourning, not celebrating. Ambassador Eria, we thank you and Lord Secheriab for the assistance you rendered. Now we have to decide what happens from this point onward." Silence fell across those present, each looking towards the king.

"We won a battle, not the war. Jelial is licking his wounds, for the moment. He will seek revenge. So what do we do?" The King's voice died down, his gaze meeting the eyes of each present. Aspith looked back at him, his head higher than the King's, even while seated, and started speaking.

"Jelial will not move quickly. He will spend time consolidating his forces, finding out how things have changed. He knows me, and my history, though he will be wondering what has brought me out of hiding. He will suspect I seek the same as he, a seat at amongst those that rule." Aspith stopped, looking at Eria, a smile playing across his feature. "It's what we all want, what we spend our eternities seeking. Any fiend claiming otherwise is lying. Once I did, and it cost me the life of my love, of many friends. I have lived for millennia since then, in peace, content to rule my domain beneath the earth.” He laughed, “First I warn against fiends claiming they have no interest in the throne of Hell, and then I claim it of myself. I speak truthfully, though. I contended for the throne, and lost. I shall not go down that path again, it can but lead to my doom- none of those in the ruling council would sit still and let me ever return to Hell without being destroyed by their combined might. Even now the Lord of the Eighth will have informed the rest of the Lords of Hell that I yet live. I am content to be left with my kingdom here. Perhaps that will be enough for them .” He paused, looking down the table, his gaze lingering on Eria.

“Jelial will not leave me be. He cannot afford to ignore my existence, he knows from my actions that I will oppose turning this world into a reflection of Hell. He knows that I will not allow him to turn this world into his personal demesne.”

“Then there are the Renegades that attacked his forces at Harmony Hall; yet another group of fiends that opposes his rule. Most of the renegades have never seen Hell; they regard this world as their home. So, Jelial has gone from having a world he thought he had under control, to one filled with enemies, powerful enemies. Do not underestimate him; he gained control of this world through careful planning, and he will use every bit of knowledge and power available to him to hang onto it."

Aspith looked around the table, and held up his hand as Eria started to speak, silencing him. "We have a far mightier alliance to stand up to Jelial than at any other time. But this is just one corner of the world; there are other hidden cities, other communities and races that lie in hiding. Who knows how many of those, faced with Jelial's ultimatum, decided to succumb? We cannot know how much closer Jelial has come to his ultimate aim. Now is not the time for complacency, now is the time to build our alliance, to find more of those that might add to our strength as the war progresses."

Those at the table did not look pleased at what Aspith had said, but none moved to gainsay it. No one challenged it, in their hearts they knew he spoke the truth. They had hoped to continue celebrating the victories they had achieved; they had not truly wanted to contemplate happenings outside of their ken. Silence reigned for a few moments more, and then D'Fir spoke up. His voice was clear and firm, as he addressed the council.

"I have to agree with what Lord Aspith has said. Many of you do not trust him; after all, he once sought to rule over Hell. It is strange times we find ourselves in; for so long we have fought and hated the evil ones that came from planes and realities beyond our own, outsiders that have come to rule our world and dominate our lives. Now I have fought alongside the Gir'Thia, devils considered deadly and violent even by the standards of their own kind,sent by Secheriab to aid us, and I HAVE seen that they, too, have a nobility of purpose. True, some would say that they deserted us before the end," and here his glance shifted quickly to Sister Egrit, "but they were never promised to us as troops, only as a means of moving our own soldiers into the conflict. They fought well, and without them we would not have lasted until Lord Aspith and his force arrived.

We have built a strange fellowship indeed. Eria the Red, Ambassador of Secheriab, represents a fiendish power that once sought to destroy Lord Aspith. The Renegades, now encamped at Harmony Hall, represent a fiendish contingent that owes loyalty to no Lord, whether in Hell or otherwise. Then, to complete the otherworldly aspect of our alliance, we have the angels, the representatives of the celestial spheres, whom have long been foes of all the fiends. Standing betwixt these conflicting ethos are those of us native to this world, hoping that one day we will again breathe the air of the world above as free beings and not as slaves.

I find myself trusting all these allies, as strange as that may seem. Each has their own reasons for aiding us, and, in those private motives I find reason to trust, and because I trust, I bow to the wisdom of Aspith."
He stood and walked to his father's side, to kneel at his side.

"I beg you, Lord D'Mir, king, liege lord and father, to give me permission to seek out those whom we could add to the roster of allies."

***

Kint walked through the quiet streets of Gunder's Hall, flanked by two fiends sent by Aspith. They were both thin and moved with the agility of dancers, or trained martial artists. Simple white robes covered their bodies, long billowy sleeves showing only their wrists and six fingered hands. Their heads were featureless ovals, their blankness disconcerting to all who had to deal with them. Where did you look when no eyes could be met? From where did the sound, and rose scented breath, come when they spoke? How did they hear when they had no ears? Yet those six-fingered hands, with silver nails and golden scales that disappeared into the dark, billowing sleeves, healed any wound, any sickness upon which they fell.

"I will call together what remains of the council for your Master's visit. Unfortunately, many have died in the plague, including Vixel, once the chief councillor that dealt with those from outside the city. Gebril still lives, but Seridi, mistress of the city, fled when you arrived. A search of her quarters has not revealed anything."

One of the fiends chuckled, that strangely aromatic breath wafting over Kint.

"Take us to her quarters. I have many suspicions as to why she would have fled. If my suspicions are correct, it would explain the origin of this plague."

With a nod, Kint changed direction, and headed into one of the more constricted side tunnels. The way was brightly lit, and many survivors stuck their heads out to peer at Kint, and the fiends, as they passed by. Fully half of the populace had died, and most of the rest had been healed at the hands of the fiends, but most had been too sick, and the fiends too rushed, for them to have satisfied their curiosity.

The three walked down the tunnel, until they reached a dead-end. In front of them was a massive door, flanked by two guards in the cities livery. They opened the door when they saw Kint, known to them as the head of the Healer's Guild, and stared unashamedly at the two fiends that entered with him.

The fiend that had spoken previously or at least Kint thought it to be the same one, stepped out of his white robe. Kint saw that the golden scales covered the entirety of its body, no patches or wrinkles marking the golden perfection. It stood there, any genitalia hidden away and not visible. The fiend started to dance, the light reflecting off its scale, reflected light bouncing off the walls, ceiling and floor. The dance was a whirlwind of motion, stunningly beautiful in its execution, and frightening in its unearthly nature. It seemed an eternity, but the unwavering intensity of the unnatural light from the tunnel showed it to be but a few minutes, before the dance concluded.

The fiend said nothing, made no sound, but simply turned and walked to a spot on the wall. It stood with both feet wide apart and rested its hands on the wall before it. A shriek seemed to rip from its throat, syllables in the dark tongue of the fiends rippling forth, taunting the ear of the human that heard them. The wall disappeared, revealing a large room with unadorned stonewalls. The walls were lined with shelves, all stood empty except for a few near the doors. The fiend reached out and took a small vial in which the remnant of a thin, red liquid coated the bottom.

"Here is the disease that attacked your city. And this one," he picked up a slightly larger vial which was filled with a blue liquid, "is the antidote. No doubt, Jelial would have offered to spare the remnants of the city in return for your worship."

Kint looked at the two vials, a gut twisting sense of betrayal rushing through him. "So, the one person we relied on to protect us from Jelial was the greatest traitor of all."

The fiend placed its hand upon Kint's shoulder. "My Master seeks an end to this. Make sure the council knows of this betrayal, and of my master's works in helping first to save those fighting at the Fort of Peaks, and then his sending of us to do the healing. My Master can be trusted, but you will find it hard to get most of your fellows to place their trust in him."

***

The three days of the revel had ended and Jelial stood before his court. The massed nobility of the fiends gathered, as was their norm, to pay homage to the one that had conquered this world on their behalf. Few were truly loyal; amongst fiends loyalty was not an emotion often found, but they all followed the one they thought would increase their personal power. In his moment of glory in the wake of the revel, Jelial stepped off his throne and walked down through those gathered at his feet. As he did so, he singled out part of their number.

"Those I have chosen today go forth as my governors to rule over those cities that have bent their heads in supplication. Let it be seen that those who are loyal to me shall be rewarded!" He smiled, turning around to allow all present to bask in the warmth of his victory. He stopped turning, facing a small devil whose grey skin seemed to soak in the light.

He smiled as those features began to boil, the acrid, nose burning smell of acid thick in the hall. He watched as the devil, screaming in agony, collapsed to the ground, the ooze leaving its body pitting the floor below. Jelial's smile did not waver as he watched, and his voice, though soft, carried over the pain-filled screams.

"Remember what happens to those that betray me. Next time, I won't be so merciful." He stomped on the remnants of the body, grinding it into the floor and emphasising, at the same time, his immunity to many of those things deadly to others.

Jelial left the hall, stopping before he left to turn and call out, “Ceriask, Gerion, Ahrith, Shinfe and Breth join me in the Chamber, NOW!”

Those hearing the command could feel the magic in it, the call reaching out to those who were not present, a compulsion that forced them back to Jelial’s court. Only Jelial knew the gamble he took- in his moment of defeat if even one of his generals chose this moment to stand against him, it could well rend the entire empire he was trying to build- and at least two, and perhaps even three, of those named had the power to resist the compulsion!

Showing none of his inner misgivings, he turned and stalked off, out of the sight of those within the court. Once out of their sight, he stood still for a while, gathering energy, before disappearing with none of the obvious chanting or waving of hands that lesser magi were forced to use in their channelling and directing of arcane magical energy. He reappeared before what appeared to be a single massive block of stone, its dark black sides drinking the light that fell upon them, igniting flecks of light that glittered within.

It stood within the centre of the market place, perhaps twice the height of Jelial and eighty paces long. No doors could be seen, and neither did openings of any kind grace its smooth black sides. All in the market place avoided coming near, assiduously making sure they stayed as far from it as they could.

Jelial’s appearance caused a panic within the market; instantly, all activity stopped as all those present dropped to their faces, avoiding the gaze of their lord and master. Seemingly at random, Jelial pointed within the crowd, and someone would be flung out- their body flailing through the air- their heads smashed open upon the block of stone. After, perhaps, the fiftieth such victim a red-limned doorway appeared. Smiling, ignoring the cobbles made slippery by the gore and ichor of those killed to open the doorway, Jelial stepped inside to await the arrival of his chief generals.

***

Gerion received the summons, even as he prepared to leave to deliver his report on the defeat at the Fort of Peaks. Briefly he contemplated ignoring it, sending out his own summons and seeing how many would gather under his banner, but then decided against it- he had lost too many battles recently to be seen as deserving of the support of the others. Still, it seemed that others might be vying for Jelial’s position, for even as the sound of Jelial’s voice was dimming in his ears, another voice reached him, low, sibilant, and filled with all the malice its owner possessed.

“Gerion, attend me. We need to talk before we confront Jelial.”

Gerion closed his eyes, following the thin arcane thread that Ceriask had left. It was tiring, but he compelled his sight out of his body, sending it ranging across the miles, inspecting the place at which it terminated. Once satisfied that the area was free of traps, he raised a portal and stepped through, leaving it open in case he needed to get away quickly.

Gerion arrived in a small room. It was bare, but for a small chair upon which Ceriask sat. No chair was available for him. Inwardly Gerion smiled; Ceriask was too sure of himself, too sure of his own power. He examined the seated figure whose bottom two arms lay calmly upon the seats armrests, his middle arms and top arms folded across his chest. His powerful legs were garbed in a shimmering purple garb, his chest covered in alternating bands of leather and gold. To Gerion’s vision, the whole shone with the power of the enchantments embedded within. Once again his inner voice chuckled- Ceriask was too dependant on the enchantment upon his garb, and the weapons he thought were invisible against his sides.

“You invited me here, Ceraisk. Speak quickly, Jelial awaits our presence!”

“Gerion.” The voice was low, smooth, controlled in its power. “Shall we play games, or are you ready to get right to the point? Come, old friend, old adversary, old acquaintance. We have known each other for aeons, sparred against one another, and been allies when it suited us. Surely we can dispense with the games and pretences and speak plainly.”

Gerion listened to the voice, easily filtering out the compulsion built into the words.

“You always did like to control those you considered your lesser. Do you think so little of me, Ceriask? Now speak, why did you summons me here when our Lord and Master awaits us”

Ceriask stood, his face not reflecting his disappointment at the failure of his magic.

“The time has come, Gerion. Jelial has overplayed his hand and is ripe for a fall. I have allies, powerful allies, allies from home that will welcome us back if we dispose of Jelial. I know that I cannot confront him by myself, but together we can overcome and destroy him!”

“You act as a mere pawn of another and wish me to do likewise? You are a fool, Ceriask! You always have been foolish, but to try and ensnare me within your crass attempt at assassination is a level of foolishness and stupidityyou have never displayed before!”

Ceriask looked at Gerion, his red face swelling, his hands unfolding, hovering near the blades of his swords. Gerion watched as Ceriask brought himself back under control, and turned away, only to quickly swing around, his words hissing through his lips as he confronted Gerion.

“I tire of this place, Gerion. I know you must too. Surely you cannot like this world and its puny creatures that we twist to our wills! I do not believe the stories of your ‘son’ that has become our foe; it must surely be no more than another of your plots. If you will not follow me, then tell me what your plans are, and maybe I shall follow you!”

Gerion laughed, throwing his rejection of Ceriask straight at him.

“No, Ceriask, I will not be joining you and neither will you be joining me! He leapt back, arcane bolts flying from the ground by his feet straight into the face of Ceriask. Silently he had sent the power out, and he watched as Ceriask’s defences dealt with the assault.

With a cry, Ceriask drew his swords, the blades almost leaping into his outstretched arms as he charged at Gerion. For his part, Gerion stood where he was, concentrating his power on defusing the arcane protection that was embedded within the clothing that Ceriask wore. He saw Ceriask coming, and at the last second spun on his feet, his hand slapping down on Ceriask as he passed by. A loud “crack” could be heard as his palm smashed into the back of Ceriask, and dull silver light surrounded him, causing him to stumble and pause, horrified, as he felt the magic leeched out of his clothing and weapons.

With glee, Gerion drew his own weapons, charging forward, letting his bloodlust overcome him. His sword clashed against the swords of his foe, easily sweeping through them, the magic in his blade reducing his opponent’s swords to mere stubs in their wielder’s hands. He spun round, kicking out with his legs, caving Ceriask’s face, making a pulp of Ceriask’s nose and mouth. His motion continued, his sword sweeping through the air, trailing light and then blood as it cut through first Ceriask’s upraised arms, and then his neck, leaving his head to drop to the ground and bounce off his knees. In his bloodlust, Gerion barely noticed and hacked at the corpse, leaving nothing identifiable, just a bloody mass upon the ground. Eventually, the bloodlust left him and he came to his senses. He calmly walked to the patch of ground upon which Ceriask’s head lay, picked it up and cradled it under his arm. With a few whispered words he faded from sight.

***

Jelial stood within the chamber fuming as he looked at only three of the five that sat there. His anger was fuelled by fear; Ceriask and Gerion were his two most powerful generals. One missing would be bad enough, both missing raised the spectre of them working together. He had long feared that Gerion, as his second-in-command , might rebel, but he had never considered Ceriask a likely rebel- he was too cowardly, too careful about losing his position and life though he was clearly one of the senior devils within the hierarchy.

The other three around the table shifted uneasily- unlike their more powerful brethren, they had been compelled to be there, to make there way with as much haste as was feasible. They understood the implications of the two missing fiends and worried at their positions, and continued existence should open war breakout. Thus they were as relieved as Jelial when the chamber resounded to the single note of the gong that indicated that someone had entered the door for which so many had been killed to open.

Gerion strode into the room, aware of the impression he made with the coating of fresh fiendish blood that covered his armour and the head of Ceriask cradled under one arm. As he entered, he tossed the head so it hit the table and rolled until it came to rest just before Jelial. With a flourish he bowed before Jelial.

“I give you the head of a traitor! Alas, he did not reveal to me just who it was that had commissioned him to try and kill you, my Lord, just that they were from ‘Home’. It seems the poor lad had gotten confused and failed to remember that this was home now.”

Gingerly Jelial reached out, his long nails turning the head till the eyes stared out at him All watched as blue flame leapt between him and severed head, drilling into the eye sockets. Above the head formed a picture, a replay of the events as they had transpired. He grunted, and knocked the head off the table onto the floor, casually kicking it into a corner where strange green and purple beetles swarmed out of a nearby hole and began to feast upon it.

“Many thanks, Gerion. It is always comforting to know that my subjects are loyal.” Jelial looked at Gerion, waving him to the seat to his right, the seat of honour next to the head of the table. Smirking, Gerion took the indicated seat and looked at the others present. After this, none would dare to mention his defeat at the Fort of peaks again.

 

[Rikandur Azebol]

Nice and smooth, Ghostknight.

 

[Ghostknight]

Part IV -AFTERMATH Chapter 30

Six months later

In the far north, the snow lay thick on the ground. The high walls of the compound were unnecessary; nobody lived beyond them in the freezing cold and utter desolation of snow and ice. The compound itself existed for but one reason, to house the slaves that were used to harvest the crop of snow beetles, thin, long, almost cylindrical insects that lived in just this one location, feeding off the bright blue plants that grew from within the ice, fuelled by the warm water that boiled out from somewhere deep within the ground.

The compound was large; in the centre stood four buildings and a large arch, surrounding this were vast fields of the blue plants, some within the walls and some continuing beyond the walls. The first of the buildings held the rooms in which the slaves slept. The walls were thin, and only a few embers lay within the massive fireplace, keeping them just warm enough to survive, but never warm enough to be comfortable. A further level of discomfort was what lay over the barely burning fire- a spit upon which the remains of a person could be seen; the remnants of a feast held by the fiends a few nights before.

The next building on held the fiends and their favoured slaves. In there, the fires were banked high and the rooms well lit. Merriment was the order of the day, their sorrow at being assigned to this backward, hostile area being drowned in the bottles of ale and wine that never ceased to flow.

All too often, they found inventive excuses for needing to punish slaves, and often entertained themselves with devising new and imaginative ways of torturing these unfortunates. Indeed, the expected lifespan of slaves within this outpost was no more than a few months. For this reason, new arrivals were common, and this day was no different. Outside, four fiends stood upon black blocks that had been heated, and then magically bound to hold the heat. To a human (or any others of the mortal races), the heat would have been blistering and almost definitely fatal, but for them it was a balm against the cold. They watched as the portal was powered from the other end and began to glow just seconds before slaves started being herded through from the other side.

Sighing, they noted that, as usual, those on the other end were too eager to finish their duties and the first slaves were pushed through before the portal was fully ready. Those unfortunates arrived in a tangled mass of limbs and organs. Still, that was why there were slaves here with them, who rushed in to remove the mess, even as others were being forced out, often stepping on top of the remains of their fellows. The new arrivals stood there shivering, their thin, threadbare clothing completely inadequate for the conditions to which they were now subjected. Other slaves ran forward, throwing old and worn jackets and boots at each person, waiting nearby to help those who were too overcome by the cold to dress themselves.

No more than ten minutes had passed before the mass of new arrivals stood there in the snow, dressed and in ranks before their new Masters. With a shout of command, and the p[rodding of whips and clubs, they started forward, following behind the slaves that led them to their new quarters for however long they remained alive. If any of them noticed that a few of them seemed too well fed, too unscarred to fit in, nobody said anything- one did not ask about the details of another, after all, everyone here was here in lieu of a death sentence of another kind.

For the next two days life continued amongst the slaves. As was usual, the arrival of the newcomers brought a brief flurry of interest from the other slaves. Everyone crowded around the newly arrived slaves, hoping that some would come from the same herd or at least the same area as they had. Each hoped for news of people left behind, of loved ones and friends. As always, the hope of those first brief moments did not last for long, the despair of their everyday lives, of daily work from before dawn until after dusk wearing them down with exhaustion.

One night, after they had been kept in the fields struggling to find the elusive insects in the dark and not being allowed to rest while their quota remained unfilled, the slaves were herded back into their quarters. Cold supper awaited them, and the fire, even the smallest of the embers in the massive fireplace had died. Horrified they looked on the dead fire in despair. They had no means to light another- and many of the weaker ones amongst them feared they would not last the night.

One of the newcomers came forward, digging through the remnants. More than that, he found a broken, unusable chair, and threw it into the fireplace. He leant over the pile, muttering under his breathe. Suddenly, there was a bright flare of heat and light, leaving behind a fire burning brightly and strong. More than that, the fuel was not visibly being used.

“By the Gods, you have saved us!” A large burly man, another of the newcomers, came forward to bask in the heat of the blaze.

“But how did you do it? We are grateful, it has been too long since any of us felt warm, but how did you conjure up this fire?” Askeletal man stood before the fire, his gaunt face smiling as the heat hit him. Others crowded around, similarly feeling the heat and revelling in the unaccustomed feeling of comfort. Someone put their cold meal near the flames, and soon everyone had their first hot meal in a long time.

The man that had started the blaze was an instant hero, everyone congratulating him. Over and over the question was raised, “How had he conjured up the fire?”

“Enough. I will not answer this question. If I told you, you would hate me, perhaps even kill me.” If the crowd noticed, no one remarked on it, but those others from the newcomers that seemed too well fed crowded closer to him, making sure that no one could get too close.

“Tell us”, the clamour of the crowd grew, worry that their benefactor might disappear and they would never feel this comfortable again. “Tell us and we swear that we will bring no harm to you.” Reluctantly, the man allowed himself to be persuaded and started to speak.

“I prayed to Jelial for the fire. It makes sense, does it not? In the old days, we prayed to Gods and they used their divine will to give us our needs. Jelial is a devil, akin to the flames, and one who holds the power of life and death. It did not seem such a terrible thing the first time I tried, and look, now I can summon fire at will. Perhaps this explains why the Gods have abandoned us- Jelial has replaced them!”

The group looked at him in horror, but some looked thoughtful- a strand in the tapestry that grew as he started to teach others how to summon flame in the name of Jelial.

***

In summer, in the deserts, the nights were hot and the days even hotter. In the deepest, driest, hottest areas grew the malinor plant. Small and hard to find, it survived by living where little else could and being highly poisonous to prevent anything from sampling it. Its vibrant red, orange and golden leaves was warning enough to the few lizards, snakes and birds to stay away- even merely brushing against it could prove fatal, particularly since its long, thin, needle-like thorns could penetrate most natural armour. It was well equipped by nature for survival in its ecological niche, until the arrival of the fiends.

How the taint entered the area was a matter of conjecture- after all, the rains only fell in those areas once every thirty or forty years; so unlike in most areas the taint could not have been waterborne. How the taint had arrived was really only of academic interest, it was there, and, as always, it twisted things to be sicker, twisted shadows of their former selves- in the case of the malinor, the taint interacted with the plant’s native poison in an unique way. The malinor was just as lethal, just as dangerous as before, but now it had an additional property, its leaves, soaked in wine and powdered with other herbs created a hallucinogenic enjoyed by the seniour fiends of the hierarchy (it was too expensive and rare for lesser beings.)

To obtain this highly desirable commodity, small camps of slaves could be found dotted through-out this hostile, lethal environment. Each camp was clustered around a magical font, which produced water at the command of the reigning fiend. The human slaves drank as much as they needed from this font, the fiends lost enough slaves to the plants that they saw no reason to kill them with thirst. In order to gather the plants, the slaves ranged widely, while wearing thick leather gloves interwoven with flexible metal fibres. Even these were not always enough to stop the poison, but trying to collect the leaves without them was certain death.

The camp was lead by a fiend named Virtel, who now stood talking to Lhitek, the master of a convoy that had brought in a fresh load of slaves, and would take the latest harvest back to the cities.

“We are to teach them the charm then?” Virtel looked quizzically at Lhitek. “It seems strange to do so now. We never have before, it always seemed risky to let slaves know any magic in case they experimented for themselves and discovered something we would rather they did not know”

Lhitek shook his head and stared down at the huddled group of slaves that had been unshackled from behind the pack beasts and were being herded into the massive tent in which the slaves were housed.

“I don’t question the orders. Back in the cities it does not serve to be in disagreement with the high lords. They have been known to take offence, and that can lead to a slow, painful death. I find it strange myself, but that is the order. Perhaps the scroll will make it clearer.” From an inside pocket Lhitek pulled out a gilded ,and beautifully carved, ivory scroll case which he handed to Virtel.

Virtel looked at the case carefully, and, noting certain elements within the design, muttered a phrase before attempting to open it. From within he extracted a beautiful piece of leather upon which letters of gold shone. As he read them, the letters disappeared, but his eyebrows raised and a look of fear came across his face.

“So that is the game that is afoot. Lhitek, forget what you told me this day, and never mention your orders to another. If you disobey they will destroy you, and not just on this world.” He looked down at the slaves and shook his head. “Who knows if the plan has any chance of working?”

Amongst the new arrivals were Ferio and Sherik, two slaves from the herds of the southern lords. Both had known each other for years, growing up in the same litter. They were closer than brothers were; after all, brothers often never met their entire lives whereas they had grown up in the same litter with the same parent-teachers. Together they had worked and studied, becoming strong and serving their masters well. So when they had been removed from their trusted roles within their masters house they had been confused- both their backs were bare of the tell tale marks of the disobedient slave- the welts and scars from whips and torture implements used to instill discipline. What was more confusing was that the other slaves that had been shipped here with them were from similar situations- all were intimate or friendly with at least one other slave, and all had been in trusted positions.

As former favoured slaves, they suffered from the hard work, heat and dry conditions. They fatigued easily and luck kept alone them going, and alive even as the sun sapped their strength and caution.

On their fourth day, Sherik’s luck ran out, and his carelessness resulted in the inevitable. Bending down to pluck the leaves from a plant, he failed to notice that another plant, contrary to the norm, was growing just to the right of the one from which he was picking leaves. As he reached down, the second plants thorns scraped along his arm. Instantly, fire exploded along his arm, shooting through his body, wracking him with convulsions. His screams were heard, and Ferio, quickly running to his friend’s aid, was forced to watch in despair, as already Sherik's arm was grossly deformed and swelling up. He could but mourn and grieve as the swelling migrated across his body, a preface to the rotting that would lead to death.

The screams were noted by others, including the fiends that were overseers, who had been waiting for just such an occurrence amongst the new arrivals, and who hastened to inform Virtel of what was happening. When Ferio looked up, he saw the fiend that was master of this place standing above him. He dropped to his knees, eyes staring at the ground, trembling with fear as he realised he had abandoned his own work to rush to his friend’s side.

“Speak, slave. Why are you here?”

Swallowing his fear, Ferio answered, as he knew he must, though he knew his words might earn him a slow death. “Master, I heard the screams and came to aid him.”

Virtel looked down at the slave, stopping his near instinctive reaction to punish the disobedient slave; he had his orders. “Human. Know that our divine ruler Jelial has decreed that humans who call on him for help shall receive aid. In order to save your friend, call on his name.” Outwardly Virtel smiled, while inwardly he cringed at the magnitude of what Jelial attempted. “I know you were a house slave and can thus read. Save your friend by memorising the phrase upon this parchment and then calling on Jelial’s name, begging of him divine favour.”

Unbelieving, Ferio knelt by his friend, read the parchment and called out to Jelial, invoking his divine will to cure his friend. It worked, and more, the phrase remained embedded within his mind. What a boon to them all, a way to survive the plants that had killed so many! So he became a disciple, teaching the phrase and its intonation to the others that laboured in the sun. Another thread woven into the tapestry, another weave in Jelial’s plan that was slowly growing to fruition.

***

Firevale was a minor city with perhaps three thousand inhabitants, of which two thousand were slaves serving the fiends and their allies. Most of the remaining thousand were fiend blooded, with a few in whom the blood ran strong enough to make them akin to their masters. The reason for the cities existence was threefold; the fertile plains outside of the vale, the comfortable conditions within the vale for the fiend and fiend blooded (neither of which cared about the comfort of the slaves) and the presence of the open veins of magma. The open veins of magma were caused by the nearby rift within a volcano and kept the temperatures high and the air filled with the smell of burning. Daily trips by slaves to the veins of magma, armed with long tongs to retrieve pieces of purified elemental earth that flowed within the magma, served as the cities main source of income. The slaves only recovered 2 or 3 kilograms of the precious material a month, the danger involved meant that slaves that had become experts in its retrieval were highly prized.

The recovered material was fashioned into armour and weaponry, then treated and enhanced by the magicians within the city. Only the wealthiest and most powerful of the fiends could afford even a simple dagger of the substance- and full suits of armour were owned only be Jelial and his generals, and then only used on ceremonial occasions. The smiths capable of working with the material were a special class within the slaves, well treated, fed and looked after. No more than three within the family were ever trained at a time, and only their children were allowed to stay with them, the rest were sent back to live with the rest of the slave population.

So it was that one day these elite slaves, the miners and smiths, were brought into the grand hall of the city. Before them stood Rioner, Master of the Guild of Crafting Magicians, and Hernet, Master of the Rites. Both were half-fiends, yet their innate power, combined with their studies of magic, placed them at the top of the hierarchy, their power surpassing that of most of their full-blooded cousins. They cast their eyes over the group, and then conferred.

“Sind, Deri, Vishnu and Hokli of the miners, as well as Rory the smith and Jecklith the apprentice stay where you are. The rest of you, leave!”

The abrupt command, emanating from Hernet, was rapidly obeyed. Unlike normal slaves, those told to remain behind did not feel apprehensive, after all, they were members of the elite and had done nothing wrong, but they felt curious as to why they had been singled out. They stood facing the two Guildmasters, awaiting their fate. Rioner wandered amongst them, touching a face here, an arm there. He seemed satisfied and nodded to Hernet.

“You have all been chosen for a new project. Until now, you have mined the elemental earth and crafted the basic items, leaving it as a mundane object, until it was given first to the Guild of Crafting Magicians and then to the Hall of Rites to be enchanted. It has been decided that since you have come from families in which the loyalty to our lord and Master, Jelial, runs deep, you can be entrusted with some of the secrets of imbuing enchantments first within the mined earth, and then within the completed item.”

He smiled, his red features with long, golden fangs looking at the five slaves before him benignly. “You will form new families within the miners and smiths, new dynasties that shall work for the glory of Jelial’s rule.”

The assembled slaves looked at one another in delight. New duties and new dynasties meant they would receive even more comfort and luxury, perhaps even equal to that of some of the lower castes of nobility. As one they sank to their knees, their heads bowed, their voices reciting the required formulae, “We hear and obey, Oh Master. Order us, guide us with your wisdom so that we may serve you well.”

Blue clad members of Magicians Guild stepped forward, lifting them to their feet and hustling them out of the hall. They were led into the massive spire of the Guild’s Halls, never before entered by slaves. They were robed in the blue and black, the blue of the magicians subservient to the black of the slave, but still present, and still demanding of respect by the casteless and those unfortunate enough to be neither noble nor affiliated to a guild. Around each neck was placed a silver chain, upon which hung a medallion of silver and gold bearing Jelial’s symbol.

“Remember, the symbol of our Lord and Master will bring you luck. Kiss it each morning and night. Call on it for help and perfection in all things you do. Know this, without it none of the magic we teach you will work. Only through the gifts of Jelial can you perform this mighty work.”

If the slaves wondered at the orders or thought them strange, none spoke of it. They were used to relying on the fiends for all elements of their existence. That it was only possible through the intercession of a fiend that they could perform magic seemed natural to them. So they learnt, and so they prayed and called on the name of Jelial, another thread in the tapestry that Jelial wove.

Jelial may have lost the battle, but he planned on winning the war.

***

Aliat paced his chambers. The archmagus was disturbed by the sign she could read, and by recent events. As he completed each circuit of his chambers, he passed the aeliogh who served as confidant and spymaster.

“Fiesch, I don’t like the fact that we find ourselves in such a predicament. Half-fiends hailed as heroes, fiends hailed as allies. And worse of all, the half-fiend is the son of Gerion, cursed be his name.”

The aeliogh noticed the signs of mania within Aliat’s eyes, could read within his mind the coming insanity that it presaged, but held his tongue. Few trusted him, and few would tolerate him without the support of the archmagus. He looked at Aliat, sending his thoughts to him, communicating without words.

“Archmagus, he is seen as a saviour, as are the other fiends. They have engineered a victory over Jelial, something that has been unknown for so long that they are almost seen as gods. Do not speak out against them, it would reflect badly on you, perhaps even cost you your seat on the Council of Magi, regardless of your personal power and knowledge.” He moved forward, his face hidden by the cowl of his robe. “Leave them be, Archmagus. In time, all will see the fiends and half-fiend for what they are. When it becomes apparent that this victory is, ultimately, valueless, they will loose the respect and veneration of the masses. THEN you can speak out against them.”

Aliat snarled, his eyes blazing with power, his hand clutching his side. “No! Get the assassins and kill that half-fiend. The fiends are too powerful, but the half-fiend does not yet know the extent of the power he has inherited from his father. Destroy him, now!”

The aeliogh bowed, and left the room. He moved through the keep, passing doors engraved with various arcane marks, all shut and locked, sealed against all but those skilled in arcane magic and with the ear of the Archmagus. He walked down long halls, circling ever higher, reaching the upper levels of the Tower Arcane. Here, in heights so extreme that to venture outside would be to die from lack of air, was a small room, furnished with a small table made from crystal, two crystal chairs, a crystal decanter and glasses upon the table.

Fiesch sat down; the crystal chair beneath him more comfortable than it had any right to be. He poured a glass of water, sipping at the ice cold, sweet spring water. He looked out into thin clear air, and started chanting. If anyone had been listening, and been able to understand the rarely heard holy language of the Aeliogh, they would have heard something never heard outside of an Aeliogh city- the lay of Gerogh, an addendum to the well known prophecies. Still chanting, Fiesch stood, stepped through the wall, and dived into the air, his body falling forever, down into the clouds below.

Within his chambers, Aliat felt as the link he had long had with Fiesch was snapped, as the aeliogh fell to his death. Briefly his eyes blazed with fury, but he held his anger in check. In a cold fury, his mind turned to forbidden rites, to lessons learnt millennia ago from one who spoke as he died for his crimes. The madness he had long fought off pushed to the fore, the death of his long time servant, combined with his anger and grief sweeping away the barriers.

Long strides took him through the tower, into a chamber shielded from prying eyes, one that admitted only the most powerful of the arcane order. Working swiftly, but carefully, he inscribes the circle of protection, and the runes of command and control. He stood within the circle, his arms raised as his throat started the chant, the arcane words familiar, but the gathering energies, the shape of the summoning was new, different. Unlike the summoning of those from above, or from within his own realm, it seemed that energy flowed into him,as if the denizens of the realms below rewarded him for his opening of the gate. Grimly he continued, the words flowing out, shaping what he sought, not just any resident of Hell, but one of power, one of singular might, one whom he had defeated in the days before Jelial, when the Elves still lived and reigned supreme within their own abode. One who had held the power to dare assault their very fortress, and come close to destroying the very symbol of Elven might.

From before him he watched as the energy gathered, watched as air itself began to form, to coalesce into solidity, forming a dark cloud before his eyes. He chanted, until the dark cloud itself answered, grew and began to feed on itself. Satisfied, he stopped his own chant, and laughed as the being in front of him strained, tested the strength of the runes entrapping it, and relaxed into quiescence.

“I have summoned you Grix of the Nine, once Master of the Hordes of the Fourth, and now no more than another of the failed generals of Hell that seek to remain hidden lest they be destroyed for their failure! I, Aliat, the one who defeated you, now seek to bargain, power for service. Do my bidding and I shall grant you the means to once more gain the favour of your master!”

The devil moved, its massive bulk flowing, armour reflecting the light of the chamber in coruscating rainbows, its eyes tiny black dots within the light display coming from its helm. Grix regarded Aliat, the mage by whom he had been defeated. Millennia had passed, and still he was paying for that defeat. Yet, if Aliat had been able to defeat him, surely he would have the means to restore him to his former glory, or was he no longer under control? Had Aliat began the descent into madness that struck the near immortals who survived beyond their times?

“Speak, elf. As last of your kind I am surprised that you have the temerity to use such forbidden magic, and that you would use it to bind me, one who has sworn himself to your destruction. What bargain would you strike for my service? And what service could one such as I offer to the Archmagus of the Tower Arcane?”

Aliat smiled. He knew the bargain would be struck, that this mighty devil would destroy the half fiend, the target of his hatred and madness. Grix, in striking the bargain, laughed inwardly. It was obvious that the mage had fallen, that his age long grief had finally stripped him of sanity. Now all that was left was to turn him into a good servant, or a mouldering corpse. In the summoning the mage had already stepped onto the path that would doom him. As for the bargain? Worthless! Whoever had taught the mage had told him just enough to make sure he doomed himself!

 

[Rikandur Azebol]

Just brilliant. Fiends and stuff, yet Jelial seemingly knows what is he doing.

 

[Ghostknight]

Just brilliant. Fiends and stuff, yet Jelial seemingly knows what is he doing.

Jelial knows what he is doing. He has his goals, and he will do whatever he has to in order to achieve them. Devils aren't known for their love or caring for each other or other beings, and Jelial has no qualms on leaving heaps of corpses behind in order to find his way to divinity.

 

[Need_A_Life]

Phew!

Back up to date...

Amazing read!
I am actually starting to think of this as the equal of the newly-published "Metamorphisis"

 

[Ghostknight]

Hi praise indeed! Ah, now all you have to do is convince Morrus and we can have a second published story hour...

 

[Rikandur Azebol]

Wich devil of sucess isn't ?

Am I right that Jelial's big gamble is interrupted at ... delicate moment ?

I remember one campaign where guy tried to became a god. PC's went in, and after being beaten Bard talked with a guy for long enough to the best moment to pass. And BBEG wasted unique chance. And then bard told him:
"Stop whinning. It's all Your fault anyway. Were You casting these spells, instead of gloating, You'd be a god now loser."
Of course end was less climatic where PC's come to an agreement that waiting for another try is worth it and put themselves to stasis with contingent dispel. BBEG became sidekick.

 

[Ghostknight]

My apologies for missing Fridays post. I am re-editing the chapter, seems the computer gods decided to allow some taint to enter into my machine (rumurs that veins of some foul smelling, red substance bein found oozing out from beneath the microprocessor remain uncomfirmed...)

On a scheduling note: Book 1 finishes in the next few chapters- and then book 2 starts. This als means to posting only one chapter a week as book 2 is unwritten (not just unedited as was the case with book1). That will mean 1 post a week.