The necromancers came and they brought the apocalypse with them. Crowe and Barghast stood on the porch, watching the red clouds cover the night sky like a malignant membrane. Blood rain fell heavily, tapping against the roof like fingernails and flooding the gutters.
The herald watched them cross the field, moving at a stolid pace, in no rush to get to where they were going. Why would they be? He’d sensed their age, their power. He imagined the sense of fear had dried up in them long ago, if they had ever feared anything at all.
Barghast growled, his hackles rising. He had his rifle in hand. He wasn't the only one who anticipated this confrontation. Monad’s flame burned inside the practitioner, ready to punish those who stood in his path and opposed him from completing his pilgrimage. Their reign of terror ends now. He focused not on the older male, but on the female. In a way he could not explain, but with a preternatural certainly he could not forsaken, he knew she was the one who had set evil spirits on him; it was she who had planted the webs of deceit in his mind. He'd promised her pain and pain he would inflict on her.
This Iteration will be their last.
The Servants of Hamon stopped several meters away from the house. The bitch let out a loud cackle that made the lycan press his ears flat against his head and his lips peel back in a predatory smile. The necromancer’s laugh was high pitched and girly, but there was nothing sweet about it. “Herald of the Third Iteration!” she cawed. “I can't tell you how long I've been waiting for this moment! I'd prefer it if Petras were here, but I'll make due with his protégé and his beast lover.”
The other necromancer remained silent. What the practitioner could see of his face was remote and as impassive as stone. The herald could feel him watching him. Studying him.
Crowe descended the steps, his boots sinking into the sodden earth. Barghast followed closely behind. Aiming his rifle at the bitch’s chest, Barghast watched his twin o'rre, waiting for the signal to strike. Crowe glared at the female with filed teeth. His eyes burned with Monad’s celestial fire. Fingers clenching around the rod until his knuckles turned white, he said, “Petras is dead. I buried him in the dirt two months ago. It seems once again I have to clean up his mess. Only this time I will take great joy in it.”
At the exact moment the bitch sprinted away, Crowe’s rod flared into life. Surrounding him in a bubble of Monad’s vengeful light. He swung his arm around his head with a flourish, whipping the rod through the air. White fury struck the ground, kicking clouds of sodden earth into the air. She was already sprinting out of the way, teasing him with her raucous giggles.
Barghast’s rifle split the air, lighting up the night. No sooner had he taken aim and pulled the trigger, he was prepping the weapon for another shot. The first shot slammed into the ground between her feet. The second hit her in the shoulder. The shot should have knocked her off balance, but she kept running and taunting. Black ichor bled steadily from the wound, reminding Crowe of the black ichor he'd seen in Timberford. The Okanavian bounded after her with a mighty roar.
Crowe turned to face the older necromancer. There was something disquieting about his silence - something he couldn’t place his finger on. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change what I have to do.
The necromancer lifted his arms, turning his open palms towards the sky. The ground before him churned as if alive. Undead limbs unfolded from the muck like ants that had tunneled up from the bowels of Inferno. Hellish orange light washed over empty eye sockets and pitted faces. Those long arms unfolded, revealing weapons meant for torture and murder.
Crowe didn’t give himself to think. He seized the ax leaning against the house, using the undamaged hand to lift most of its weight. He sprinted through the storm with a war cry, charging for the nearest revenant. Before the undead creature could take its first steps, the herald swung the ax with all his might. The blade hissed through the air, parting the revenant's head from its shoulders like a blade cutting through butter. He shouted the Okanavian’s name but there was no time to see if the lycan had heard him. He ducked just in time to avoid the blood-stained edge of a hatchet; it narrowly missed his skull. He spun on his feet like a dancer, ax raised above his head, before dispatching the revenant with another swing.
No sooner had the herald straightened from his battle stance, a fist crashed into his face with enough force to knock him to the ground. Fueled by rage and adrenaline, Crowe shook the fog from his head. Staggering to his feet, he glared at the necromancer who'd struck him. He didn't remember reaching for his rod; it was simply there, in his hand. He slashed the air with it. Shards of light shot from its tip, spinning towards their target.
The necromancer twisted into a cloud of black smoke. The shards that would have cut into him like actual glass passed harmlessly through him. He rematerialized back into solid form. “You’re different from Petras,” he croaked with an inquisitive cock of his head. “Younger.”
“That’s right!” Crowe spat through gritted teeth. Bolts of light shot from his rod, striking the ground. “Let me show you just how different I am!” He fired volleys of mana at his adversary, for once letting his fury take hold. It was always there, always close to the surface, never far out of reach. Now it drove the necromancer back, forcing him to protect himself with a wave of black smoke that absorbed the impact of Crowe’s rage.
Crowe cursed. Raising the axe above his head, the herald charged at the necromancer, ready to end this fight - ready to end him. Before he could reach the man, the necromancer spun his arms around his head. The black cloud bloomed like a tumor, surrounding the practitioner until it took on a spherical shape. The wall surrounding them crackled and spun as if it had taken on a life of its own.
Crowe swung the ax at the wall desperately, hoping to break through it. The ax passed through the wall, parting it, but doing no damage. He caught a glimpse of the other side, caught a glimpse of Barghast running towards him, heard him roar his name, and then he was gone, the wall healing itself like skin.
The herald rounded on the necromancer. He pointed at him with his damaged hand, speaking through gritted teeth. “Let me out right this instant!”
“I will do nothing until you and I talk,” the necromancer said.
The sorcerer scoffed. “If you wanted to talk you could have said something before you tried to kill me last time. You could have reached out to me in my dreams. Instead you have chased me from one end of the north to the other. You have fucked with my mind and threatened the one I love. We are past the point of talking.”
Once more he raised the ax over his head and charged.
…
Barghast watched his twin o’rre disappear into the cloud of smoke - devoured by it. There one second, gone the next. He charged towards the sphere with an Okanavian curse. For the briefest of moments, he glimpsed Crowe’s face: He was trying to cut his way out of the cloud of noxious black smoke to no avail. Unfurling his claws, Barghast cut through it. He could hear his beloved’s voice through the cloud - he sounded angry - but the words were muffled. The lycan did everything he could to break through to the other side, but no amount of strength or will would prevail.
The mad scream of the bitch sounded behind him. He turned in time to catch a jab to the face that knocked him back into the sphere. Hitting it was like slamming into a solid wall. The impact sent a shockwave up his spine that knocked the air from his lungs. The bitch was quick and strong. Far stronger than she appeared.
“I will enjoy feasting on your flesh,” he told her in Okanavian.
“Ymg' would nafl ah ehyeog,” she said with a grin that only a predator could hold. You would not be the first.
Her fluent use of the desert language caught the barbarian off guard. He cocked his head at her.
She laughed, holding up her fingers so that he could watch them elongate into bone-like claws four inches long. Longer than his and sharper. “Perhaps h' ymg' ah bthnkor Y' ephaifeast ll. Mgah'ehye's yog mgah'n'ghft, ahor c'?” Perhaps it is your flesh I will feast on. Let’s find out, shall we?
A gale of strong, foul-smelling wind picked up at her will. The gale lodged her into the air. She spun mid flight like a dancer. Her claws sliced into the barbarian’s face, opening cuts deep enough to bleed. The blow stung, but his rage - his lust to maim the bitch who had tortured him and his beloved - overmasked it. He snarled, rounding on her.
He lashed out at her, hoping to open some wounds of his own. She stepped lithely to the side, jabbing her claws into his side. Each jab drew blood, causing him to whine in spite of himself. He swung again, only to hit open air. She rolled over the ground like a rolling ball before bouncing up on her feet. Barghast dropped back to the ground, pretending to be more hurt than he was. Blood flowed freely from his wounds but it would take more than a few cuts to get him down. The feint was enough.
She charged, screaming something under her breath. The words were lost on him. She drew her claws back, ready to open him up somewhere else. When he felt she was close enough, vulnerable enough, the Okanavian struck out with all his might. His claws stabbed into her belly, bowing her in. The words in her throat died, turning into a moan. Not of pain, but of pleasure. Her lips spread into a playful grin, revealing her razor-sharp teeth. Her silver eyes flashed and he knew once more she had turned him into the fool. A feint within a feint.
The thought no more passed through his mind when Barghast was airborne again. He flew twenty feet before crashing through the front of the house, the wall disintegrating beneath his weight. At last rolled to a stop on the floor, covered in dust and wood splinters.
He sat up. He tried to stand. He faltered. Already he could see the bitch moving towards the house, moving towards him. He waited, gathering his strength. Better to let her think he was defeated. Better to perform the ultimate feint. It’s the only way I’m going to win this fight, Barghast thought with a whine. Meanwhile his twin o’rre was stuck in his own battle. Trapped. Possibly wounded.
Barghast shoved all thoughts from his mind, forcing his body to still itself. He could hear the bitch climbing through the hole in the wall he’d made. Hear her breaths. Hear the hummingbird beat of her heart as it raced in excitement. She thinks she’s won. In her arrogance she will lose, for Gaia never hunkers down in defeat.
He could sense her standing over him now, her breasts rising and falling with each breath. Only when her claws closed around his neck did he open his muzzle as wide as he could and close it down on her wrists with all his might.
She screamed then, falling back onto the floor. This time she did not scream in pleasure, but in agony. Streams of black ichor spurted from the stump where her hand had once been. She looked up at him, her eyes glowing pools of hate. She said something to him in a raspy voice. Though he could not understand the words that poured from her mouth, Barghast knew she was threatening him.
“No one harms my twin o’rre,” he told her. “No one touches him but me.”
He grabbed her head in his paw. His paw covered it entirely. She screamed, kicking her feet. Before she could strike him with her other claw, he began to squeeze. Squeeze until her head caved in. Squeezed until her head burst open like an overripe melon. Black ichor downpoured from his curling paw like spilt paint. At last her body went limp. He dropped her carelessly to the ground. There was nothing left but a stump where a head should be.
Barghast rounded his shoulders, snarling in triumph. Now it was time to deal with the other one.
The sphere of black smoke was still there. It rolled and spun, its state unchanged. Barghast let out a whine. His beloved was still trapped inside.
…
Crowe’s arms ached, the ax growing heavier with each swing. The necromancer did not attack him, but seemed intent on evading his attacks; it was hard to kill a cloud of smoke. The curve of the ax struck the dirt for the dozenth time.
“You are different,” the necromancer repeated. “You have started far earlier, younger than the other heralds. Petras was the equivalent of a middle-aged man when he started. You are little more than a boy. Hamon can't see it. Too fooled by hate for his creator. Stuck in the hell he has created for himself. Aren't we all?”
“Say what you want, it makes no difference.” Crowe glared at him, stooped over, the head of the ax planted in the ground. Beads of sweat and blood rain sluiced down the side of his face.
“You don’t understand the importance of what this means. The implications.” The necromancer’s voice trembled with what could have been fear…or excitement…or both. “This is unprecedented.”
“You know what I think?” the herald croaked hoarsely. “I think your master, Hamon, and Pope Drajen are more the same than they are different. All of you. None of you want things to change. None of you want the nightmare to end. Not when you can maintain your position near the top. Because that’s what this is all about. What every war ever is about: Power and greed. Everything else…the lies and trickery you spout…is all just a smokescreen to keep me distracted. I know I'm on the right path, and unlike Petras, I will not fail.”
He lifted the ax again. The necromancer broke apart into smoke, rising above his head. At the exact second Hamon’s servants rematerialized behind him, Crowe whirled around and swung the ax with all his might.
The blade parted the necromancer’s skull right down the middle, stopping at his chin. Black ichor spurted from places unseen. Crowe gaped at the ruin of bone and gore he'd made and knew it would stay with him for the rest of his life. The body hit the ground with a wet thunking sound that made him flinch.
The cloud of black dissipated.
The moment he could break free of its confines, he lunged towards the familiar shape rushing to meet him in the middle of the storm. Adrenaline pumped through him, making his skin prickle and the air feel charged. Or maybe I'm just happy we're alive. We did it. We beat them. The woman in the North said we wouldn't be able to, that we aren't strong enough, but together we are. Together we can overcome anything.
He felt a pair of familiar strong arms close around him, felt them haul him easily off the ground until he was airborne. Airborne but safe. Always safe when he was in the arms of the lycan. He didn't remember the climb up the stairs. He was too busy kissing whatever he could of the barbarian…whatever he could reach.
The Okanavian set him down on the bed as if he was made of glass. He nosed at the sorcerer, nosing and lapping and kissing him, whining and yipping, shaking so hard it made Crowe's world vibrate. “Twin o’rre…safe?” He pulled off his boots, his breeches freshly stained with blood. It seemed in the blink of an eye the herald was naked. Exposed.
But not unsafe. Never unsafe.
“I’m safe. I’m safe.” He reached for the barbarian who was in the middle of dappling his belly with kisses. Crowe rubbed between his ears, trying to pull his head back up. “Come up here. I want to see you. Are you safe? Are you hurt?”
Barghast raised his head until his muzzle hovered an inch from the practitioner’s face. Amber eyes held intently onto blue. Crowe ran his hand along the claw lines that marked the Okanavian’s face. In the dim light it was impossible to see how deep the cuts went.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I…safe…”
Crowe found himself crawling backwards on the bed with Barghast tracking him, his tongue and saliva hot against the practitioner’s buzzing skin.
Sometime later…he couldn’t say how long…Crowe found himself curled up in the protective arch of the barbarian’s body. A joint smoldered in his hand. He could hear the deep breaths of his companion. What he couldn’t hear was the rain. It had stopped, and so had the wind.
“Barghast?” he whispered with a grin.
“Crowe?” He felt the bed shift when the Okanavian sat up, attentive as ever.
“Do you hear that?” The sorcerer pointed at the ceiling. The lycan’s ears swiveled in the same direction as his finger. “Nothing. I hear nothing.”
The barbarian said something under his breath with an inquisitive cock of his head.
“Not the sound of rain. Not the sound of the thunder. All I hear is us. Just us chickens.” Crowe reached for his breeches pulled on the floor. Barghast reached to stop him with a whine. The practitioner laughed. “I want to go see.”
Before he could get up again his bare feet were being lifted off the floor. His rump landed back in the Okanavian’s lap. Barghast nosed his ear. “Stay,” he rumbled.
Crowe scratched at the fur along his muzzle, earning a growl of pleasure. “You’re not going to give me much of a choice, are you? I have no say in the matter. You're the biggest brat!”
The Okanavian kneaded the herald’s rump possessively. “Mine,” he rumbled. He fell back on the bed, pulling the practitioner up with him.
…
Black ichor spurted from the widening gap; the hand twitched with phantom life. Crowe turned away, his gorge rising. His own hands shook uncontrollably, the sound of steel slicing through flesh transporting him back to that horrible room in Fort Erikson. A burning pain stabbed through the stumps where his fingers had been. He gritted his teeth, pressing his knuckles against his mouth in an attempt to block out the sound.
Of course Barghast noticed. No matter how hard the practitioner tried to hide his turmoil from his Okanavian companion, Barghast noticed everything. He lifted his head from his crude surgery, cocking his ears in the sorcerer’s direction.
The practitioner forced himself to breathe in through his nose. “I'm fine.” He gave the barbarian a tense smile. “Just keep doing what you're doing.”
The necromancer’s finger came away with a wet peeling sound. Crowe glanced at what remained of the bodies piled up in front of the house. The report of the axe cutting through flesh and bone still reverberated through the herald’s mind. Take comfort in the fact they can no longer do you harm in this Iteration, he reminded himself. They're nothing more than a pile of severed limbs.
Now Barghast stood, holding out his paw to Crowe; the severed finger rested in the valley of his palm.
Crowe resisted the urge to turn away from the offering. He faced the bonfire they'd made of tangled weeds and the wood they'd procured from the trees surrounding the property. It's just a finger. A dead one at that. You don't even know if this is going to work. It would probably be a good thing if it didn't.
There was no turning back. It was time to learn who this Hamon was. He took the dagger from the lycan. He pressed the blade into his own flesh until blood flowed freely down his hand. He cleared all thought, all emotion from his mind. He sensed Barghast close by. Close enough he could feel heat wafting from his body. He longed to give himself to the Okanavian’s and embrace - and never leave it - but the pull of the Cycle called to him. The pull of something.
He pulled on his mana until his eyes burned with Monad’s holy fire. “I call to Hamon, the king of the Black City. Raise your head to my call, enemy thine…” The words slipped from his lips like gossamer thread, somehow both alien and familiar to him. He repeated the chant, his skin buzzing, his skin singing in his veins. He could hear Barghast whine but the sound came to him as if from a great distance.
The air around them thinned, growing porous. A strong gust of wind picked up, making the trees sway where they stood. When he opened his eyes a small rent no bigger than a bronze coin punctured the air. Through the hole between this world and the next he could glimpse Inferno’s crimson skies.
One more time.
The moment he started the third chant, the moans of the damned sounded around him as if stirred into wakefulness by the wind itself. The clink of chains dragging through ashened soil, taking him back to the temple in Timberford. Red drops of his own blood caught the air, devoured by the portal he’d made. With each drop of life given to the doorway, the mouth thrummed, growing larger and larger until he could step through if he wanted.
He didn't. That would be suicide. What we're doing is foolish enough…dangerous enough.
Through the other side of the portal he could now see the interior of a large chamber. And at the center of a large platform he could see the Black King in all his glory. I used to think you were just a bedtime story Petras used to tell me to keep me frightened of the dark. Come to find out, you're all too real.
“Hamon, I presume?” His voice sounded steady to his own ears in spite of the fact his heart would burst its way out of his chest.
The king of Inferno lifted his great head. His skin glowed with an eerie luminescence that filled the shadowed corners of the chamber. His eyes fell on Crowe like heavy weights. A long, slow smile spread across the width of his bonelike face.
“Only deranged and the suicidal have the courage to summon me,” Monad’s first creation said in a voice so deep it made the chamber and the earth beneath the practitioner’s feet shake. “Which might you be?”
“Perhaps a bit of both.” The herald took a step closer to the portal. “I'm the herald. I hear you've been looking for me.”
Hamon’s eyes smoldered: With interest, with resentment, with hate. His smile remained stitched to his face. A face that would have been perfect - too beautiful to behold - were it not for the black veins that tunneled through his flesh. “So, suicidal. You must be if you are brazen enough to contact me in my own home.” The fallen angel cocked his head, his great black wings twitching inquisitively. “The old fool was right…you are different. Younger than the last…”
“I have a gift for you, O mighty Hamon.” Crowe felt his mouth twist into a smile when he saw the flash of surprise in the Black King's imperious eyes. “I figured I would be gracious enough to return to you what you've lost.”
He waved his hand.
Hamon’s eyes closed on the lycan, who'd begun throwing the severed limbs of the necromancers through the rent.
Hamon’s eyes fell on the remains of his servants. Crowe watched human emotions flicker under his face like shifting plates. First the eyes widened and then the mouth trembled. The practitioner felt a savage stab of triumph knowing that if nothing else, he'd rendered the Black King speechless. “The next time you want to kill me, do it yourself!” the herald spat. “Don’t send your lackeys after me…it's insulting. I beseech you O mighty king of the Black City, rise up from your throne and do it yourself if you are so inclined.”
Seething, the Black King rose from his throne. His silver hair spilled down his broad shoulders. Snarling, he reached for the portal.
Stepping back, Barghast barked something at Crowe in Okanavian. The practitioner could hear the whine of fear in his voice but he himself could not move for he was not afraid. The force inside him - the same force that had saved them at Fort Erikson - kept his boots anchored to the ground. Just as he suspected, when it seemed like Hamon’s hand would breech the portal, crossing into the material universe, the fallen angel jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned.
Crowe laughed with bitter triumph. “You can't, can you? You're stuck. Imprisoned in this nightmare the same as everyone else. And to think the bedside stories my tutor told me used to have me shivering beneath the blankets. Color me disappointed.”
As the fallen angel began to curse him and the world began to shake beneath his feet, Crowe severed the link between him and the portal. The doorway between dimensions closed with a loud pop.
Crowe swayed on his feet. His body felt heavy. His ears rang with a thousand alarm bells. Blood trickled down his nose. Barghast was at his side in an instant, wiping at his face with a handkerchief, chanting gently in the desert language. The practitioner grinned, fatigued but happy. The necromancers were dead. Provoking Hamon could carry consequences for the both of them. Isn't it better to look the enemy in the eye and stare him down with courage rather than cower in fear?
Crowe rubbed at the lycan’s shoulders. “I'm fine,” he reassured the Okanavian. “Just a little banged up. No more than usual.” He found himself looking around, scanning the night for signs of movement. Just because we're alone doesn't mean we're safe. A familiar sense of urgency pulled at him.
It was time to reach the Mirror Expanse before something else impeded their journey.
Deep within the bowels of the Black City, the Surgeon worked tirelessly. He pulled severed limbs from torsos he'd opened like boxes, and tugged flesh from bone with tweezers. The movements of his four long spider-thin arms were meticulous, moving with a thoughtfulness borne of passion that had never once waned in his eternal existence…no matter his allegiance.
The lab in which he worked was a large cavern submerged deep underground, beneath Inferno’s tall spires. Even in a place of damnation, few souls wandered through the tunnels of caves that led to his lab. Those who did usually found it solely by accident…and never found their way back out…or were dragged against their will. Such an unfortunate soul might have been surprised by the immaculate state of the room as much as by the creature - not to mention downright terrified - who occupied it.
Shelves that reached up to the domed ceiling were filled end to end with various specimens that had been preserved in a tar-colored substance: insects and the fetuses of species that had gone extinct during the First and Second Iterations, hands, feets, brains, coils of intestine. Things that would both fascinate the mind and sicken it. Beakers filled with chemicals and alchemies stood neatly spaced on the tables, releasing vapor into the air. Air that smelled of the human anatomy; air that smelled sterile with anesthesia. Surgical tools hung from hooks grafted into the thick stone walls.
A lost soul who had wandered into his domain now laid on the gurney beneath the domes of amber light that beamed down from the ceiling. The young man's torso had been opened from collarbone to crotch like the wings of a butterfly spread open, the flaps of skin, blood, and muscle pulled neatly aside to reveal the bleached bone of his ribcage and organs. The only sign he felt anything at all were the silent tears that streamed down his cheek. His eyes remained fixed on the Surgeon’s beaked face, silently begging him to end his suffering. The Surgeon continued on, lost his own thoughts, muttering incoherently to himself, cutting strips of the specimen away to drop them into the jar of black fluid set on a cart.
The Surgeon paused, lost in thought. Lost in memories. Memories that had fallen into shadow and cobweb. Memories that spanned back Iterations. He pulled his bulbous head back, a head that ended in a single sharp point, insect-like and bird-like in equal measures, to look up at the ceiling. One eye was fixed on a distant memory, while the other one - covered with a white cataract - peered into the Void. One eye peers into madness while the other peers into Nothing, his master always said of him - the closest to a compliment the Surgeon had ever been granted.
Quite recently the Surgeon had become very distracted, indeed. His thoughts pulled back to his first body, his first name, his first life when he’d been called Boamiel. The name echoed through his mind as if whispered from the sweet lips of a lover. Only the Surgeon couldn’t recall loving anything. If he felt anything close to love at all, it was for what he was doing now: to cut open living things and see how they ticked. Better yet, he loved to make new things out of the old…
But…this memory?...this feeling?...filled him with despair. It reached back into the memories he’d abandoned when he’d given his soul to Hamon and betrayed his master.
When he closed his eyes (the one that could see and the one that couldn’t), the Surgeon saw the white spires of a great city that was anathema in every way to the Black City. Towering statues stood in between the towers, their arms raised to the sky, palms outstretched to support the heavens.
In these moments…these spells…he wandered the streets. Not in this used up body twisted out of shape by his own sins and misdeeds - his betrayal - but in his old body. A body that had been powerful. A body that’d had wings and could take flight. He dreamed of standing in the white hall of Monad, looking up at his creator with love as so many had once done.
Something had changed.
A betrayal.
A new allegiance.
A fall from grace.
A fall into darkness.
This body with insect limbs and a bird’s beak and wet reptilian eyes. A body that was big and clumsy and ugly to behold. This is why you stopped looking into mirrors. This is why you can no longer bear to look at your reflection…it sickens you to behold.
He ran a hand - a hand that was both a limb and a mandible - over his scaly white-gray flesh and shuddered in disgust. A feeling that was new and familiar at the same time. A feeling he hated every bit as much as he hated himself.
A prick at the back of his neck like a needle sliding into his brain ripped him from his thoughts. The call of his master. The call of the Black King. In the reverberation that spread through the cavern of his chest where his heart quickened, he felt Hamon’s anger. His frustration.
Something’s happened. Something of great importance! I’m on my way, master!
His claws fluttered excitedly, knocking scalpels and sutures onto the lab floor. He left his subject to spoil forgotten on the gurney, scuttling towards the lab’s exit. Many damned souls had lost their way in the seemingly infinite sprawl of tunnels and corridors, but even half-blind the surgeon traversed them easily. Insects - roaches the size of small dogs, rats with two heads the size of large dogs - scattered in his wake. He stopped when he reached the round hole that had been carved into the bottom of the spire. He hesitated, pausing at the line where Inferno’s daylight divided the shadow of his domain. The nerves that lined his back told him it would be night shortly and all the things that lived in the dark during the day would come out to walk the streets while the sun hid. He looked up at the sun for the first time in hundreds…thousands?...of years. Its warmth washed over his skin, making him shiver.
Do you remember when you stood under a different sky? When you could look up and see the heavens, unobstructed by clouds of poison? Unburning? Do you remember when you looked down upon the Eternal City while the first people praised your name, looked upon you with respect, not with revulsion? All that you gave up when you sold your soul to another.
The Surgeon gnashed his teeth together. If the voice that echoed within the halls of his mind had vocal cords, he would have ripped them out with his pincers.
“My soul was never my own,” he snarled to the petals of dust motes that filled Inferno’s narrow and rickety streets. Dark, human-shaped figures flitted in between the spires, moving about while the daylight hours allowed.
Another tug - needles stabbing into his brain. The call was more insistent, more impatient. More angry. Don’t keep me waiting.
The Surgeon jerked like a puppet on a marionette. He didn’t like this sudden invasion…these memories from another life that left him feeling confused and vulnerable.
“My life for you, Hamon,” he whispered to the eddying spirals of dust that billowed through the streets with tortured moans. He repeated the same words once he stood before the Black King, stooping on his six insect legs into a bow. “What can I do for you, your Grace?” It had been centuries since he’d last laid eyes on his master, but it only felt like it had been yesterday; if he could understand what the concept of “yesterday” meant.
In answer, Hamon gestured at the pile of severed limbs that lay in the center of the chamber as if to say, Is it not obvious? Black ichor stained the floor.
The Surgeon’s only seeing eye widened; the other remained fixed on his master. “Is that…?”
“Pa and Tara.” The anger in the Black King’s voice made the walls of the chamber shake. Instinctively the Surgeon shrunk back, not wanting to further incite his majesty’s fury. “What remains of them.”
The Surgeon gaped at the remains, emotions warring on his scaly face: eyes wide, beak slightly parted as if wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. Shock. Such an ugly surprise after so long spent in his lab without anyone to bother him - with only his specimens to keep him company. He longed to go back to his domain and continue his work. He tried to hide his inner turmoil before Hamon could see it - the Black King had a way of mocking such displays of emotion - but he needn’t have worried. The lord of Inferno was lost in his own seething thoughts, his hands gripping the sides of his throne hard enough to crack the ancient stone. Many of thrones had been destroyed in the wake of his ferocity. Many more would be destroyed and rebuilt over the passing of Iterations. The Surgeon closed his beak and rearranged his features into something more placid. He resisted the urge to clear his throat. The lord of Inferno is not to be rushed, he reminded himself.
“The herald has returned.” The Black King ran his fingers around the pouty bracket of his mouth.
This time there was no hiding the emotion in these words. The Surgeon felt a shiver crawl up his spine. Fear. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since the early days of the Second Iteration when he’d stood before his creator to be judged for his treachery. He felt that same fear coursing through him now like black barbs. Not for the first time he wondered if his king felt such things: if he, too, had been plagued by memories of his first life before Inferno ever existed. Before the banishment of his creator to the Void, before the exile of the First People to the material universe. Do you shake in your skin the way I do? Do you fear the retribution that will surely come for us? If not in this Iteration, then in the next?
To ask such a question would have been an act of Hubris. He could already see it now: the floor opening beneath his legs opening; the endless fall through the Void. Imprisonment to the Void was the worst punishment an immortal could suffer - worse even than death. To live for eternity was already a punishment. To freefall for an eternity was damnation itself. At least here in Inferno, we are a kingdom unto ourselves.
The herald has returned.
Which could only mean one thing: The Third Iteration is here…and soon it will come to an end. The implications tumbled through the Surgeon’s mind, both exciting him and frightening him. War was close at hand…assuming it hadn’t already begun.
When the Black King spoke, the rumble of his voice pulled the Surgeon from his thoughts. “Things are different. Pa tried to tell me, but I didn’t believe him. Not before I saw the herald with my own eyes. He’s younger than the previous heralds. Things have started…early.”
The Surgeon was silent for a long moment, trying to think of a response. He didn’t like the edge he heard in Hamon’s voice. Fear. Confirmation that the lord of Inferno did, indeed, feel fear. Second passed in silence. Minutes. Maybe even years. Time did not grace the reddened skies of Inferno the way it did the material universe. Like a child who fears their parents’ temper, it was the Surgeon’s instinct to soothe his master. “Master…?” he ventured cautiously, pinchers clacking open and closed in anticipation. “What can I do to help?”
Hamon looked up at the demon as if he’d only just realized he’d been standing there the entire time. The Surgeon waited for the floor to open up, for the Void to swallow him whole - his master only needed to wave his hand - but it didn’t happen.
“There is little I can do from here,” he answered eventually. He spoke haltingly as if the words were hard to pronunciate. Hard to admit to. Was it the Surgeon’s imagination, or did he sound embarrassed? Best not to ponder. Best to act as if you didn’t hear anything at all. “He's with the lycan, which makes it impossible for me to reach him that way. I cannot physically leave Inferno without a vessel.”
The Surgeon almost clapped his pinchers together in excitement; he already knew where this was going. He kept his eagerness contained. Best not to interrupt his majesty while he was in a foul temper. He waited, letting the heaviness of his silence speak for him. What would you have me do?
“I want you to build me a vessel worthy of your talents, Surgeon.” Hamon rose from his throne, his burning eyes ablaze in the dimly lit interior of the chamber. “I want you to use their remains so that I may breech Monad's new world and take the measure of this new herald. Build me a vessel that will strike true terror in the hearts of men.”
So it had been decreed. With a final wave of his hand, Hamon dismissed the Surgeon.
Stooping, the insectile demon clacked his pinchers open and closed. “As is your will, Your Grace.”