I ran ahead while his heavy footfall clamoured always close behind, like a vigilant shadow. The echoes of thunder from his steps washed ahead of me. His boots, strangely cast, neither metal nor stone, but something between volcanic obsidian and pristine ebon-steel crunched stones and pebbles to sand with every step we advanced. As he closed the distance, passing me by my shoulders, for a narrow whimsical moment, his slotless helmeted face, fanned from its surrounding mysterious aura of ash and smoke, turned in my direction and I caught what could only be termed as trepidation etched on the Knight of Ash and Smoke.
“There were two and only they were there,” he said unannounced and more importantly, willingly on his own.
“Alone, isolated and by themselves,” he continued over the sound of his stampeding rush.
“But this treacherous transient realms corrupts even those........”
I halted midstep, arrested over his casual revelation. Were it not for the heavy shackling burden of a prime demon and a bloodthirsty horde before me, I would have certainly found it amusing. Even somewhat exhilarating. Perhaps, with a glass of absinthe shared in the company of Vitalia or Cyrene or even with Vangere, it would have led to an interesting debate. A demon portaling into a mortal realm and cursing it as hellish ground. Altered perception? Multi-dimensional nature of reality? Such academic concepts.
“........ half of their amaranthine essence was futile.”
Half of amaranthine essence! Boundless essence? He is referring to tieflings. No! Half of the essence. Cambions!!!
Time seemed to slip slowly. A million impulses rushed through me overwhelming my brain with a multitude of information. Like tiny dots from thrown grains, each seemingly devoid of pattern from their neighbours, yet with the inflow of more and more information consolidating itself, the silhouette of a design slowly manifests.
Demons and Angels have long fought a proxy war on the material plane. That is what scholars agreed on. That is what established religious leaders preached. Immutability is what they represent, is what they are and death is ephemeral to them. Even torn limb from limb, they would reform in their own realms, just as the Knight of Ash and Smoke before me. Only death at an opposing plane would prevent the restoration of their forms. Their essence, still very much unchangeable, only the process of reformation hindered. Devoid of launching a direct assault on each other's plane, the mortal plane was their only choice to resolve their conflict. At least, that was the agreed consensus. And we were wrong. Terribly wrong!
Immortality is just a side-effect. Change is as exotic to them as immortality to us. For a culture that consolidated itself on permanency; every demon’s hierarchy in the brutal ladder defined -- unchanging; their denizen’s will stripped at the whims of their realm; cannot foster advancement. For entities defined by constancy, the concept of time and future does not exist. Their culture does not nourish the birth of new ideologies. Every speck of genesis for Innovation and generation of novelties is inhibited -- hindered by their own shackled constructs.
The demons cannot evolve on their own. This is not a proxy war fought on a convenient ground but rather a subtly hidden competition for resources.
“Even wielding the sacred gift, a Prime is not to be trifled,” his cautionary words finally broke me out of my own tumbling chain of thoughts.
“And yet you are rushing bravely beside me?”
“I would reform. The Dame of the Demesne is sharp-witted to infer from my absence,” came his voice from behind his veil of Ash and Smoke.
“Reinforcements?” I asked desperately.
Facing a prime demon alone meant seeking allies. And then there was the prophetic promise that Lyria compelled me to make. For a brief moment, I flirted with the possibility of Lyria secretly following me and duelling the Prime demon to save the day. A wishful fantasy to see my love! A chance to see her flex herself beyond the small existence as a contented blacksmith that she carved for herself.
But if the muscle and steel of Lyria could not, then I had my own ways sorted out --- almost.
“The thoughts of the Dame are closed to me. Beyond comprehension. Besides.....”He twisted his upper body at an impossible angle and peered through his pitch-black helmet and then shrugged.
“Consort Mother, you jest.”
Any further exchanges between us were cut short by the arrival of two figures. They emerged like shadows given form while parting the darkness. Absurd as it might sound, even the thick surrounding fog hastily washed away from their presence. An eerie silence, not pertaining to the natural order, settled oppressively around, followed by an uncanny invasion of hoarfrost. With every step the figures advanced, the chill permeated more, shivering my bones.
The smaller one of the two, General Zarod the bloody barber, was almost non-descriptive when walking beside his companion. The former was a human with a slightly paunching belly hidden behind thick armour, a slowly receding hairline and huge malicious eyes. Mauls, too large for normal men to wield one-handed, he held one in each hand effortlessly.
While I braced myself to lurch at a giant behemoth sculptured in steely muscles and covered with pus-ridden flesh, the Prime demon was surprisingly almost elven and human-like in appearance. Standing a full four heads taller than General Zarod, the Prime demon’s posture was anything but relaxed. Face devoid of any hair, and a bald head covered in mossy green tattoos. For a narrow uncertain moment, the tattoo on his head seemed to writhe and transmogrify on its own. No visible weapon the demon carried, for a Prime needed none.
His eyes, devoid of any aura or grace, squinted sharply with the viciousness of a blood-starved viper. The fabric of his rich silver-lined robe, without any creases and pristine, shimmered with an otherworld lambent sheen. Sheer undisguised disgust hung at the corner of his tight lips as his gaze passed through the Eldritch Knight. The Knight beside me answered in contempt.
Stolen story; please report.
“You wield powers not deemed for mortal hands,” he spoke. His voice, like the strenuous uncomfortable wheeze from a dying man, carried over his venom and threat.
My gaze flicked from the Prime demon to General Zarod, who stood mutely beside, only his fingers clenched till his knuckled paled on the handle of his mauls. In contrast, the Prime demon exuded lethargy.
“I am Rylonvirah of....”
With a sharp envenomed edge to his words, the Prime demon cut through.
“The Chained House cares not for your petty titles, nor the small hole you came to possess.”
The Chained House! So they have sent the demonic enforcer, after all, no other demon realm would be more suited for the task at hand than the realm that embodies subjugation, demolition and despair. Adjuration must have had a deep impact for a key realm to send a Prime. Whatever untapped potential that Adjuration holds, the Prime before me came with only the company of General Zarod.
The motivations of the bloody barber are simple to comprehend. He intends not to let the glory of slaying me fall solely at the Prime’s demeanour. He wants his share and once he had the fill, his name uttered in terror, he would bask in the dread of his moniker, probably loot pillage and raze till Fort Halcyon. And when the One-Horned Warlord arrives, he would lay all that reputation at the Warlord’s feet in exchange for a filled chest of gold, opals, rubies and diamonds -- riches worthy enough to fuel his wanton hunger for a lifetime.
But the Prime demon, the unlikely opponent, was unreadable. So far, his only expression was of disgust directed at the Knight of Ash and Smoke. His fingers, pale and with multiple joints were curled safely inside his palms. The retractable bony protrusions from his fist extended out once with ophidian celerity before retreating back inside his arms. In his wake, shadows seemed to gather from the surroundings, attracted to his form like vultures to a rotten carcass.
“Your own Monarch sent a Prime, yet! Tell me, am I of least significance or are you?” I taunted back over the dread silence that settled in the desolate plain.
“Claimed or not, I will drag your soul in chains and eternal despair will be your only company,” uttered the Prime demon with a smirk of his blood-red lips, revealing twin rows of filed teeth.
“Tell me, how does it feel to work with Archliches? To cooperate with mere mortals who succeded where the Chained House failed?”
A deep inhuman scream, bone-shivering and blood churning, issued from the Prime demon. His impassive face was marred by a vindictive scowl as his whole posture stiffened. Pure unadulterated rage roiled off him in waves. The arcane tattoos on his head swayed and tangled in swirling surges as his temper flared.
Ignoring his seething rage and the violent rush of liquid fire-like ferocity seeping through him, I continued.
“I always wondered why exceptional mages and wizards would choose the path of necromancy to achieve immortality when a simple contract with any demon willing to barter would ensure an eternal place in whatever realm they traded with. Or Perhaps perform virtuous deeps in the hope that some celestial realm would take notice and throw a morsel of reward?”
The very air around the Prime demon sizzled. Even General Zarod’s eyes were clouded with fear as he darted a step further away. Only the Knight of Ash and Smoke summoned his massive bastard stone sword and held it with a two-handed grip -- posed ready to strike.
“What is the point of eternal life when you cannot dominate others, to strip them bare and bend them to your will? Tell me, Prime demon, How does it feel to serve a futile realm? You cannot destroy that which reforms. There is no despair where free will is stripped. And how does it feel to work beside those Archliches -- mortal beings -- who achieved where your realm disastrous fails?”
Dark bony protrusions flicked out from his limbs. Thick and robust enough to shatter rocks and puncture through reinforced steel doors. Hot fiery breath billowed out of his flaring nostrils and even the thick swirling tattoos on top of his head smouldered a bright brilliant orange. Spiked protrusion tore through the robe from his spine and the dark mass slowly enveloped him forming an armoured exoskeleton.
“I will not stand an affront to my Liege,” he uttered over the sounds reorganising external bony outgrowth.
“All eyes are on us. Smiting me will not suppress the truth.” My trembling fingers wrapped around the handle of Adjuration, letting the calming feeling fill my being. A heavy lacerating aura of uncertainty hung around, as the Prime demon flexed his arms, and dug his heels -- ready to sprint.
“Answer me. Have you not felt the presence of Reverend Mother Zar’amaris? Even if you silence me by the strength of arms, but without a verbal reply, your odium remains. How poetic it would be for The Chained House to be dominated by the domain of Opprobrium?”
The tattoos on top of his head swirled more violently, a miniature firestorm raging over his head. Bright sparks of cerulean lightning flickered between his clawed fingers as he inhaled a deep breath to calm his infuriated temper. Ignoring the twitch in his eyes and the hardening of his jaw muscles, he opened his mouth after much struggle.
“Death is not the only way. When we subjugate realms, infinite is the despair we spread. Our shackles will shatter the pillars of every realm. Every plane will tremble when we surge.”
His words, his declaration coming from a Prime demon were akin to an acknowledgement from his Monarch. Just what I hoped -- and even better.
Cracks spread from where the Prime demon kicked the ground as he lurched with staggering speed.
Unleashing Adjuration, letting its seven-bladed whips marvellously display their tenacity, I began.
“I offer my weapon for a contract.”
The Prime demon froze midway, stunned by my words -- almost as if stuck by an unseen fist of rock -- while he considered the implication of my sudden offer.
“A weapon in the hands of a Mortal that brought a Prime to intervene.....” I uttered every single syllable slowly, tempting the Prime demon.
Trepidation held his powerful limbs while lust, a previously unknown emotion, now roamed vividly behind his eyes.
From the sides, General Zarod finally screamed his first words since arriving.
“What kind of villain tempts a Prime demon into entering.....”
The headless corpse of General Zarod fell with a small thud. His head, with a twisted snarl, still etched on it, fell and rolled a few paces further. Still warm blood fell in rivulets and gradually painted the ground a dark crimson.
“Necromancers,” spat the Prime demon at the still twitching corpse.
Deep misty pugnacious smoke rose as the Prime’s acidic saliva corroded through the corpse.
“Never trust necromancers with corpses,” he said slowly.
“Now, the terms of the contract,” he asked expectantly.
“Convene with your Monarch. How willing is your realm to bend the pact?”
The corners of my lips twisted into a wicked grin as innumerable ripples faded into existence. The very air thrummed in resistance while multiple breaches in the fabric of reality blinked.
Throngs of demons brandishing serrated blades, spiked mauls, vicious claws, ravenous mandibles and bloodthirsty fangs spilled forth. Falling on one another like two surging massive tidal waves crashing, the indiscriminate slaughtering began.
“Consort Mother,” came the solemn voice of the Eldritch Knight, “You have brought the demon civil war into an open conflict.”