Nuros cast himself along the ground at the feet of his master. His presence darkened the floor of most of the enormous audience chamber, though it didn’t diminish the light that flooded in from the far end, where hellfire flickered from an enormous, misshapen maw. He had no idea what the devourer had looked like before its last metamorphosis, but he doubted it had been anything like this. Varamemnon’s face was here, but the rest of his body – a mass of tentacles and eyes, grew throughout his city. In many respects, Varamemnon was his city.
“Master.” Nuros said. “I am returned.”
The shade had grown more powerful since the last time he was here – much more powerful. The darkness that made up his substance could now resist the light to a degree and he managed to extend himself ever so slightly up into three dimensions.
He hated it here. The third hell was like any plane away from home – oppressively bright. The fifth hell was blessedly dark, vast and empty, and it was one of the few places that a shade could take on its true shape. Nuros, though, wouldn’t be constrained to such limits much longer. He was close. So close.
“Nuros.” A voice that sounded like the roar of a thousand furnaces spoke his name. “My enemies nip at the heels of my vassals. K’Thanizar sees your failure and whispers of weakness to my peers. Anukthun prepares his servants for war and even Illa’ka sends her hags into my realm to poach my crop. Why do you return?”
“Great One.” Nuros said, trying to stay perfectly still despite the sudden urge to flee. “An Outsider interfered, granting great power to one of their pawns who destroyed the vessel before its time. I seized most of what it had gathered, but it was insufficient for my ascension. Soon, though, I will prevail. There are other cities, and other armies stand ready for the harvest.”
Varamemnon rumbled in thought. “Why, then, do you return?”
“I seek your blessing, Great One. My host was destroyed by an imp named Dzhorianath – it was cleverly done and the method used was… not typical for one such as her. I wish to bind her to me. My servants tell me that it is bound by a human, a warlock named Bernt. Given the proper nourishment, she could become an asset.”
“An imp.” Varamemnon mused. “Very unusual… very well. Bind her in my name, but be wary. Fail me again in the sight of my enemies, and I may feed your power to her, instead.”
Nuros groveled appropriately and backed out of the massive chamber. Then, he descended, ignoring the lesser supplicants cowering on the steps of the enormous ziggurat. The meeting had gone reasonably well, all things considered. Soon, he would ascend to become a true demon lord. In time, he would found his own city deep in the eternal dark of the fifth hell. A place where fear itself went to die, and he would have to bow to no one.
But that was far off, yet. Soon, he would be summoned back to the material plane and resume his harvest of his little corner of the mortal world. Once that was done, he had a servant to poach.
He needed to kill the foolish warlock who had sent the clever imp to break his host, both to break their pact and for his own personal satisfaction.
***
The late afternoon sun was already casting long shadows when Bernt made his way into the Crafters’ District out of the Undercity Gate, only to be met by the sight of hundreds of gray-skinned dwarves.
He’d already half-finished casting a fireball when he realized that the duergar in front of him weren’t armed. In fact, they were half naked and hauling rubble with stone-faced determination under the watchful eye of the City Guard. He canceled the spell and walked forward, looking around at them suspiciously as he passed.
By the looks of it, the City Guard was forcing the prisoners to rebuild what they had destroyed. That, in itself, wasn’t that strange. What surprised Bernt more was how well the odd dwarves cooperated. Bernt wasn’t really sure how these things normally worked, but it felt strange. How could these be the same people who had climbed over their own dead to try to kill them in the Undercity?
As he passed, he couldn’t help but look over his shoulders at them, expecting one to rush at him at any moment.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Nothing happened. Leaving the odd scene behind him, he hiked through the broken Crafters’ District and the Temple District, making his way into the Upper District, where Therion lived. He hadn’t heard from any of his adventurer friends since before the battle. The wealthy neighborhood felt like an entirely different world, even more so now. Everything was so clean, and there was no sign of the many people who had been displaced from the Lower District, many of whom were still camping in the streets.
Bernt supposed that most of them would eventually make their way into the Undercity, but now that the danger had passed, they would have to fill out the proper forms before they could be assigned housing. It would take days, maybe weeks to process everyone.
Here, children played out in the street and Bernt even saw someone fastidiously trimming an already well-groomed hedge with scissors. He knew the incongruous sight would have outraged him just a month or two ago, but he found he couldn’t muster any real ill will for them. At least someone had managed to get out of this mess without grief.
When he knocked on Therion’s door, a young girl that couldn’t have been more than ten years old opened it. Her eyes were red – she’d been crying recently. Did Therion have a younger sister?
“Can I help you?” she said in a tone that suggested that she did not, in fact, want to help him.
“Hi,” Bernt said, an ominous feeling stirring in his guts. ”Is Therion around? I just wanted to drop by to check in on him after the battle.”
Wordlessly, the girl turned and disappeared into the house. Bernt stood there awkwardly for a minute, not sure what to do next. Finally, though, Therion shuffled up to the door and offered him a tired but genuine smile.
“Hey. I heard you guys took a beating down in the Undercity. Glad to see you’re still with us.” He turned, waving for him to follow over his shoulder. “Come on in.”
Bernt followed him inside, through a foyer into a large living room. It was larger than his entire home in the Undercity, and Bernt idly wondered what someone could possibly want such a large room in a private residence for when he noticed the man lying on the massive couch filled one corner of the room on his left, next to an enormous fireplace. It was Garius.
His eyes were open, but he wasn’t looking at anything. The girl was sitting next to the man, trying to feed him from a bowl of what looked like porridge and whispering to him.
“He was in charge of the rangers during the attack.” Therion explained with a dead voice. “Ambrose ordered them in toward the Undercity Gate to cover him and help him kill a bunch of warlocks. He wanted to break some kind of artifact they were using over there. The others said that my dad got hit by one of those shadow bolts when he tried to kill their leader. They got most of them before they retreated. But… he’s catatonic.”
“Oh man.” Bernt tried to find the right words to say. He knew what it was like to lose a parent, but no one had said the right things to him then, either. It was supposed to hurt. He swallowed. “Can the temples do anything?”
“Syrah was here. She said the gods won’t touch the minds of mortals, not even to heal them.” Therion swallowed thickly, but then composed himself again. “She said he might get better on his own in time, though. The spell most likely caused some kind of mental trauma. We just need to take care of him. Talking to him is supposed to help.”
Waving for him to follow, Therion took him out the other side of the room, into the garden. He walked quickly, obviously trying to clear his mind. “What happened down below, exactly? I heard a few rumors, but it sounds… well, nothing that seems very reliable.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard some of those, too.” Bernt said. “The truth is crazy enough to fit right in with the rumors, though.” He filled Therion in on what had happened, backing up a bit to explain his new sorcerous investiture before describing the battle and his role in it. Too much had happened in such a short time.
When he was done, he followed up with a question of his own. “So, Syrah was here – I guess she’s fine. What about the others?”
Therion shrugged, settling down on a rock near the edge of the property. They’d rounded the house and were standing near the street under an old oak tree. “We fought together, covering the flanks of the more powerful adventurers and making sure the Duergar couldn’t come around and cut off their retreat. Our area was relatively safe – nothing we couldn’t handle. Furin took a spear in the leg, but it wasn’t serious. Syrah fixed him right there.”
“Good.” Bernt felt some of the tension release in his chest. “I’m glad it didn’t turn out worse.”
“Yeah. Considering everything I’ve heard, we got lucky.” Therion said. He gestured back toward the house. “I knew something like this might happen one day. Adventuring is a dangerous job. I just hoped… well, that it wouldn’t.”
Bernt nodded, but he didn’t reply. Sometimes, there just wasn’t anything to say.
“So, liquid perpetual flame, conjured instantly.” Therion said after a minute, trying to change the subject. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that makes you against other spellcasters? You can break through wards, enchantments and protective spells at will with this. Oren is going to be furious when he hears about it. You have no idea how much trouble he has to go through to get past an enchanted lock.”
Bernt grinned. “Works great for clearing slimes, too.”
“I’m sure.” Therion laughed, and it sounded only a little forced. “What are you going to call it?”
“Manaburn.” Bernt replied. “What else?”