by Fox Lancet
“Gear up, soldiers!” He basked in the response of hundreds of restless Demons. After the roars died out, Nefarion turned to Calious and grumbled, “Oversee the rest of this as I see to the Flestchers.”
“Lord.” He nodded proudly and turned to survey the mass, claws behind his back. Calious did not allow his excitement to surface. Instead, it bubbled inside like boiling blood. In the absence of the Elite, he was Nefarion’s next trusted and chosen. Nefarion leapt from the staircase and disappeared into the cavern leading into the fortress.
Suddenly a visage of Aisleen assaulted Calious’ thoughts. He barked shortly, but no one near took notice—all too consumed in the dawn of war. After pressing a claw to his temple and refocusing on the lake of Demons below, his head cleared. He squinted and snarled to himself, forgetting the image.
Nefarion entered the Flestchers’ chambers. The gate to the spacious cavern was already yawning into the setting moonlight. The Scribe stood at the base of the steps into the chamber, hugging an armful of scrolls. Nefarion noted his twenty-four chosen riders outside the open entrance at the back of the fortress. They were all mounted and their steeds stomped and shook their heads with anticipation.
“You are no longer needed. You may take leave.” Nefarion took the scrolls from the hooded creature, who nodded and slid back up the stairs.
The Demon Lord sat at a wooden table where The Scribe had left a blood-well and needle. As he opened the first scroll, a harnessed Flestcher scurried to the table. Its breath was raspy and a forked tongue shivered from its mouth with each breath, waiting patiently for its purpose. Once signed and rolled back into place, Nefarion secured it within a leather slot behind the Flestcher’s right shoulder blade. After sliding it into the slot, he poured candle wax over the opening. When it had dried, he stepped outside with the Flestcher and pointed in the direction of the Ninth Legion fortress: the furthest, smallest, and newest legion, one he knew would be eager for combat. He motioned for the closest riders to pursue, and then watched the dark dust billow up and devour the retreating escorts.
Nefarion repeated the process seven more times without deviation before seeing the back gate shut and sealed. He returned promptly to the tunnel entrance where a guard awaited him with his armor and steed: Ruin. Calious was already seated on his new mount—armored and strapped with his notorious collection of daggers, as well as the customary axe, sword, and chain mace.
“Every Demon is armed and mounted?” He did not look to Calious as he settled into the saddle.
“Yes, Lord.” Calious’ equine, Discord, rocked forward and back on its enormous hooves.
“Famine and Carrion if need be?” Nefarion inquired of Syler and Hunter’s loyal steeds. Calious nodded.
“Indeed, two riders have volunteered for the task. Two from the Wrath regiment,” Calious expanded, Wrath being the best below his late Apathy troop. Nefarion smiled, the first Calious had seen since his recent arrival.
“Then let us be off!” Nefarion growled, commanding his steed forward and slicing through the thick band of black-leathered Demons.
The mouth of the fortress regurgitated a fluid stream of Demon warriors. The combined pounding of hundreds of giant horse hooves shook the ground and created a thunderous din that could be heard for great distances. Creatures of all kinds whose ears captured the threatening rumble had not heard the like before, and those older had not heard it in such a time that they did not recognize it. It was as though a mountain was collapsing.
Once spread over the narrowed road through Schyroline Forest, the sheer size of the army filled half the distance to the Plains of Eslendor. It would take two moon-passes to get from one end of The Horde to the other. When they reached the cover of trees, the army slowed their gait to a generous trot.
Suspicion and caution were of no concern to Nefarion on this journey. None of his enemy would be prepared for the sight or would be able to assemble a defense large enough before the Demons reached their goal. And as he expected, they met no resistance. If anyone or anything had seen them, they or it had not made themselves known.
After crossing the plains at a calm pace, as to not alert the enemy if they were at the gate, Nefarion halted the army at the bottom of the mountains. He sent Calious down the line to announce the final proceedings. Knowing his enemy, the Seraphs must have set up some sort of guard after the Demon sentinels had been eliminated by death and distraction. He planned to leave The Horde on the plains while he, Calious, and the whole of Wrath, which consisted of thirty-six of the best soldiers on hand, made a stealthy approach to Strace Peak before clearing out the current enemy. After the moons reached the top of the sky, five of the troops would travel to the gate while the other seven remained at the base of the mountain until sent for.
Nefarion had been correct in his assumption. He and Calious had counted three times each: thirty-one Seraphs and twelve Slecktics. Out-numbered, but Nefarion excluded the Slecktic count due to their lack of threat, and the element of surprise led him to conclude the situation could be contained quickly and the enemy conquered. Also, the enemy was spread far apart, many in the trees. Nefarion had already sent Wrath in a wide radius to encompass the borders of the enemy’s position, straying clear of Slecktics’ inferior night-vision. The twelve Slecktics were concentrated near the gate, the center of the enemy territory. The Seraphs were posted out, around, and above.
Wrath’s first command was to silently assassinate on Nefarion’s signal. Once an alarm went up, they were to attack at will; a command that never needed encouragement. If the first action went as expected, half the enemy would be rendered useless--dead or severely injured--and all Demons would still be standing, easily finishing the remaining opposition.
The moons were tucked behind the trees and wavered above the furthest horizon; the darkness was heavy. Demons crept into position carefully, unable to utilize their night-vision lest they alert the enemy. The cautious tactic would be discarded on Nefarion’s signal to ensure successful elimination.
Silence was broken only by the wind brushing through the trees and the slight footfalls of pacing Slecktics. A white Seraph, propped comfortably on a high branch, stared up through the thin leaves. He stared casually at the cluster of stars that filled the gap between the next silhouette of leafs. He sighed, bored. Twenty-six passings of the moons. If the Demons had been notified of the ambush and were going to retaliate, they would have done so by now.
As if his thoughts had spawned some horrible fate, a short bark broke through the peaceful night. The Seraph jerked up and cast a swift gaze down below. Dread consumed his soul when he saw the great number of red eyes that begun snapping out of the blackness as if conjured from nothing. The dread bloomed into his physical being when he realized they were surrounded. Then the eerie chimes of multiple chains sifted through the still night air.
Grunts and strangled shouts fell from the tree tops, followed by the sound of raining bodies landing disgracefully onto the forest floor. As the standing enemy recognized the attack and went to call an alert to the others, roars from the bloodthirsty Demons prevailed, the Demons themselves not far behind. After the initial attack, the remaining number was as they had planned, nonthreatening, and the Wrath soldiers neglected their weapons for claws and teeth to make for prolonged and shared kills.
The chain pinched tight against the Seraph’s right leg, binding him to his tree branch. He voiced no response and tried haplessly to loosen its grip. The chain jerked tighter still and the Seraph heard his perch crack under the pressure. He snarled quietly and glared down at the chain’s wielder. The Demon’s black outline was barely traceable in the shadows, but teeming eyes bore into his. Another jerk. He clenched his teeth, stoically reserving a vocal reaction. The branch crackled. The Demon refrained from another tug and simply pulled until the branch finally let go of the tree with a pop.
Once the Seraph hit the ground, the rest of the Demons were already moving in on the remaining guards. The chain slackened briefly and th
e Seraph responded instinctively. His reflexes did not aid him, merely moving the chain’s grasp to his ankle before it bit into his flesh again.
The Demon stepped out of the shadows, his fangs appearing through a grin that faded when a dagger thumped into his chest. His red eyes shrunk to slits and his sword sang from its sheathe when he drew it. The Seraph assaulted him with another dagger that landed in his shoulder. The Demon took one long step and swung his sword. A short scream finally raked its way from the Seraph before his hand plopped in the dirt near his foot. Almost immediately after the first swing, the black assailant caught the Seraph’s other arm under his clawed foot and amputated his remaining hand just as swiftly. This time the Seraph disciplined his scream and swallowed it.
Without contemplation, the Demon picked up his chain and dragged the handless Seraph back in the direction of his commander.
“For you, Lord,” he grumbled after stopping a short distance from Nefarion. The sound of rending flesh and collapsing skulls went unaccompanied by screams, for all that was left were stoic Slecktics.
Nefarion regarded the Wrath soldier carefully. “I have disarmed him,” he continued when Nefarion made no response and pulled the Seraph in closer. He picked him up by the throat and forced him into a kneeling position before Nefarion.
“Dis-handed him is more like it,” Calious laughed. Nefarion smiled broadly.
“So he did.” The Seraph curled his lip in disgust and kept his eyes on the ground. “Tell me, Seraph, how many of you passed through that gate?” The white creature made no sign of divulging any information.
“Perhaps he is inept and does not know our tongue,” Calious offered.
“I strongly doubt that. If it is the case, I will simply use his.” Nefarion cleared his throat and utilized his enemy’s dialect, taught to him by a witch long ago. “Tell me, is Kaleb still on this plane or has he crossed?” He spoke slowly, not having practiced the language often. The Seraph still made no move or indication to respond. Nefarion growled.
Without flinching, the Wrath soldier removed the dagger from his own chest and jammed it into the Seraph’s shoulder, behind the collar bone. The captive threw his head back and howled in surprise and pain. Before he could drop his head to his chest, Nefarion caught his face in his claw.
“Speak, you wretch! The information puts your prince in no danger. I cross no matter where that foul creature walks.” He reverted back to his Demon tongue. The Seraph met Nefarion’s eyes for the first time before hacking a collection of blue blood onto his enemy’s chest. Nefarion pulled back, snarling, and kicked the Seraph in the chest, sending him back several paces.
The death clamor had subsided and the soldiers were reconvening near the gate, watching the interrogation at a distance.
Groaning, the Seraph rolled onto his side, the chain falling from his ankle. The Wrath soldier approached to retrieve his captive. He pulled the second dagger from his shoulder and stuck it in the Seraph’s thigh, hilt deep, and dragged him back to Nefarion by the dagger’s grip. When he was back in front of Nefarion, the Demon Lord put a foot on either side of the Seraph’s torso, who remained on his back in the dirt. Nefarion settled his claw on the creature’s throat-- tight enough to repress another projectile, loose enough for him to speak.
“Answer,” Nefarion spat, allowing drool to ooze from his mouth and lap across the flawless white face beneath his. The Seraph glowered at him.
“Here,” he managed through his teeth.
“And Jacob on the otherside no doubt,” Nefarion stated, standing, aware he would receive little more from the enemy. The Seraphs, like the Demons, would die before revealing pertinent information.
“Hang this one by his elbows and ankles above the gate. I want him alive to witness the army I have produced to keep his like at bay. And from this point forward, anyone and anything you kill will be strung up in trees by its ankles as a warning for any who approach this way until every tree on this peak owns a corpse!” Nefarion ground his teeth. The Wrath soldiers smirked and nodded. The warrior who had delivered the Seraph to him immediately began heeding Nefarion’s command.
“I cross now. None will follow, or seek death by my hand.” Nefarion started toward the gate, his soldiers clearing a path. “Calious will lead in my stead. You obey his command unless a general consensus deems his command tainted by lust of power.” He stopped at the mouth of the portal and turned to finish addressing them.
“Hear this! Calious is now Elite and you all know the penalty of betraying one thus titled. And though you are many, trusting in one another, there are always eyes and ears that reveal truth to their one true Lord. Do not disappoint me in my absence. Reward of flowing blood is imminent with your patience and loyalty.” He scraped his attention across the warriors and met Calious’s purposefully for several seconds. “If I have not returned by twenty moon-passes, send one regiment back to the fortress to retrieve the remainder of the legion; then want every last one of you to cross.” Calious bowed his head long and deep. At that, the Demon Lord turned and slid into the void.
* * *
Saliea dragged on a cigarette, the plume of smoke cascading into the dying light of day. She rarely smoked. Tonight she was just using it as an excuse to sit outside and watch the day end. She sat on a lawn chair, staring up through the silhouette of the oak tree’s bushy branches.
“Beautiful,” she whispered. The sun had fallen behind the mountains and the sky was a muted pink, purple and blue. After jamming the cigarette into an ash tray on a glass table beside the chair, she watched the ribbon of smoke dance into the air for a minute before standing up. She walked to the center of the yard where she could see between the houses to make out the edges of the mountain tops. Their forms jagged black masses in the failing light.
She was about to turn around and walk inside when her body went rigid. Her vision went black and her heart started beating frantically. No, not again. But this time was different. All of her insides were on fire, causing her to collapse to her knees. Trying to catch her breath, she began coughing. Coughing and hacking until she started choking and vomiting. She tasted the distinct coppery tinge of blood. This time she thought for sure she was going to die. Something inside her was separating, leaving her. The loss would kill.
Before she knew it, she lay on her back, staring up into the claws of the tree, stars winking between its black leaves. Stars? She thought the agony had only lasted two minutes, but the sky told her otherwise.
Moaning, she pushed herself into a sitting position and wiped the back of her hand on her mouth. Blood smeared the skin.
It was still there. Whatever it was had tried to break from her. Unsuccessfully. She could feel a humming, like if someone were to touch her she would shock them. It was stronger now. Maybe it had succeeded. Maybe Saliea had died for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes and come back, though she didn’t recall losing consciousness.
Suddenly she felt angry, irritated. She jerked herself off the ground and stomped into the house. As soon as she had something in arm’s-reach, she grabbed it and threw it. Whatever it had been crashed into the rack of movies beside the TV, causing the whole thing to rock and tumble forward, spilling the contents all over the floor. It didn’t help so she screamed instead. Still nothing.
She caught sight of the butcher block on the kitchen counter and went to it, grabbing the biggest knife before heading to the basement. Downstairs there was gym equipment, weights, and a punching dummy. Letting loose again, she knocked it to the ground and straddled it so she could stab it repeatedly. Over and over she brought the knife down, shredding the dummy’s features and obliterating its torso. After several minutes, she slid to the floor, panting. And all she felt was frustration.
Blood. There was no blood.
* * *
Nefarion pushed past thorny foliage into a dimming light. The sky above arrested his attention before anything else. The lighting reminded him of the red sun’s descent, though here the light threw many colors he had
never seen in the sky before. A blinding white and yellow burned behind an enormous, jutting mountain and it continued to saturate the overhead expanse in shades of purple, pink, and finished with a dominating, but depleting, blue that disappeared over hillsides to another horizon unseen.
When he was finally able to pull his gaze from the impossibly colored canvas, his eyes dipped to the next prevailing feature of the new landscape. Tall golden grass waved delicately across the hillside. Nefarion reached down to touch it, but stopped and averted his focus to pale hands. He splayed his fingers and proceeded to lift his hands, examining them before moving his eyes to his chest, his feet. After a moment he touched himself, running his fingers through the hair on his head that he could see was black when he pushed it in front of his eyes. He brushed the fur above his eyes and discovered the new contours of his face.
“Strange.” His voice rolled from his throat in a low thunder. The sound and the word made him glare.
Directing his thoughts from his transformation, he let his eyes come to rest on the area at the bottom of the hill. Suddenly emerging from all of the natural growth were structures seemingly created with much regard. However, some were crumbling and the remnant smell of a great flame captivated him. He strode toward the area. There were no signs of life.