by Shad N Freud
Graahl held a claw to his mouth, shushing Cenere as a late breaking story popped up on the screen. “This just in…folks, a stabilized portal to the Abyss opened in New York, outside the Citadel. Reports are coming in of demons flooding into New York and surrounding places of worship. All precincts are reporting in, claiming to be under siege. We go live to…we seem to be having technical diff-” The screen was reduced to static for a few seconds before flashing the station’s Technical Difficulties screen, a particularly bad sign at a time like this.
“Fuck. Me,” Cenere said, running his hand through his hair, then rubbing the base of his horns as he began to develop a headache. “I thought it was weird that they were attacking the Sinland locations. Now this? Fuck!” Cenere took a deep drag of the cigarette, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“How articulate of you,” Carl quipped, lighting a fresh cigarette. Cenere gave him the bird as Carl reached into his coat and pulled out a rather ornate cell phone. He dialed 666, then waited for the dial tone to stop. “Yeah, boss, we’ve got a problem.” Carl rolled his eyes as the voice on the other end snarked at him, then his head wrenched to one side as if struck. The voice on the other end admonished as he growled. “Right. All in hand. You’ll excuse me, Your Darkness, if I find that a bit hard to swallow, as…yes, he’s right here.” Carl handed the phone to Cenere.
“Hi there, Cennie-poo! So, demonic incursion on a grand scale, huh? I guess we’ll need to bring out a few of the big guns, won’t we? Well, I have a few legions of devils you can throw at the Abyssal tide. Good catch, by the way, on noticing the fail point for the wards at Sinland locations. You’ll be heading a taskforce to upgrade the systems when this is all over. But, for now, you and Carl are going to be leading the charge. Retake New York, then get to Times Square before midnight on the 21st. Go save the world for me, would you? I’ll consider it a personal favor. I’ll owe you one. Now be a dear and give the phone back to Carl.”
Cenere handed the phone back to Carl. “Operation Wyrmwood is a go? Bloody Hell. Yes Sire, I understand.” Carl hung up his phone, then dialed a different number, not even bothering to set up a VPN. “Get the rest of the Sins to Berlin. Oh, and by the way, Bella, congratulations. I hear it’s a boy. Yes, I’m alive. Sort of. Just shut up and get them here.”
Carl hung up, then showed his hand. Three sixes, king of spades, queen of hearts. Both other players threw their hands down in disgust. A Black Reign was the top hand in Inferno, the poker rules the Inquisition tended to play by. He smiled as Cenere made his way up to his room, to go inform his fiancé that he’d meet her in Times Square on the Prophecy day.
Several moments later, after muffled yelling, there was a loud Thwack! and Cenere went flying out of his room and slammed into the wall across from the foyer from the upstairs master suite. The tiefling slid down the wall, his clothes smoking faintly. He slowly peeled himself off the floor and staggered back into the dining room, stifling a scream as he healed himself on his way to the table.
“She didn’t take it very well,” Cenere coughed as he sat down in one of the chairs. “Deal me in.”
∞∞∞
The next morning, the airfield had four air carriers moored. One of which Carl was very familiar with. The Captain disembarked and strolled on over alongside an Australian woman. Carl smirked when he saw them, giving a small wave. “Carl, I’m sorry about what happened. My ship was in drydock, and I didn’t get a chance to-”
Carl interrupted Dirge with a hug. “No worries, mate. I’ve had sixty years to mourn. I look forward to seeing them again, though. Also, me da should be showing up soon.”
“Wait, what?” Dirge shouted as Catherine walked up and slugged Carl in the belly, as the Aussie wasn’t a particularly tall woman. He turned and gave his other favorite drinking buddy a hug as the other Sins walked over. It wasn’t often that all seven of the Grand Inquisitors got together, and they all clapped Cenere on the back to congratulate him on his promotion. Carl looked back at his cousin and pulled him aside to give him the facts of life. Cenere, meanwhile, lit up a congratulatory cigar with his peers.
“So, two to a legion?” Carl asked as he rejoined the group. “We’ve got four legions of devils inbound in the next half hour. We’re going to be airdropping into combat to clear the city in two days. We’ll also be acting as escort for the rest of Cenere’s little party.”
“This a private function, or can anybody join in?” Caspian asked as he and Lonnie walked up to the group. “Got a special dispensation to install four cruise missile cannisters on the Goldfish, and she seems to think they’re burning a hole in her hull so she’s itching to shoot em. And Lonnie here wants to pull a Strangelove if he can. He found a loophole in the curse, as throwing the spear causes him to teleport to its location. So, launch the missile, have the spear tied to the front of it, and ride the missile all the way to the crash site.”
“Probably ruin roller coasters for me, but why not?” Lonnie smiled as he shook hands with Cenere. He then looked up at Carl. “Remember our agreement, Beaumont.”
Twenty minutes passed without incident, until a hangar door burned away, revealing Pitlords ten abreast marching out of the hole, all armed for war. And, leading the procession, a whipcord thin Pitlord covered in grenade bandoliers, chomping a cigar as he swaggered along, a minigun slung over his shoulder. He was wearing tactical gear, as well as the typical leather long coat worn by most Inquisitors.
He strolled right on up to the group of Grand Inquisitors and snapped off a crisp salute to Carl. “Legion Commander Duke Marcel Carlos Beaumont of the 8th Purgatory Legion, present and accounted for, General Beaumont, sah!”
Carl rolled his eyes and hugged his father. “Good to see you, Pop. Is Mum running the 7th?”
Marcel pulled the cigar out of his mouth with a fang-filled grin. “Sure is. By the by, she’s been wondering why you haven’t called or written or even popped in for a cuppa. I’m inclined to agree, meself. Almost like you’ve been busy doing real work for a change.”
Carl laughed as he slugged his father in the shoulder. Marcel looked over at Cenere and whistled. “Looks good on you, mate, that second pitchfork.”
Carl nodded, “Ironically, he’s number three seniority wise. Been a Grand Inquisitor since the forties, after all.” Carl sniggered as he fished out his smokes and a lighter, turning a baleful eye on Cenere. “Also been engaged for sixty-seven years, you creep. And your poor fiancée’s been pregnant that long, too. Best make an honest woman out of her soon, or she might get tired of waiting.”
“Get buggered by a train, you old poof,” Cenere laughed as the four legions on loan from Lucifer poured out of the stabilized portal and formed up in neat columns while last minute preparations were conducted.
Each Pitlord was wearing a parachute designed to be strapped to the side of a large crate or armored vehicle for airdrop, and every one of them carried some form of automatic weapon, two handed melee, or other form of lethal implement with which they’d get to purge the heretical masses. A green, orcish Pitlord that looked like she’d walked right out of a swimsuit magazine walked up to the group wearing a set of black combats. Caspian’s jaw dropped as he saw the gorgeous, Amazonian warrior stroll on over to Marcel, picking him up for a smooch.
“Oi, yeh daft bastard, yeh left the electric kettle on when yeh left this mornin. Also, where’s me son? Cannae rightly ‘member what he looks like, as the little cunt never comes ‘round for supper or even a cuppa. Lets his poor ol’ mum worry about him all the time, ne’er even gives us a ring.” Molly said in a long suffering, Pythonesque voice.
“Missed you too, Mum. And you bloody well know why I couldn’t come ‘round to visit you and da.”
“No excuse!” She laughed as she set her husband down and reached down to close Caspian’s mouth with a finger. “Best close that, dearie. You’ll draw flies. Also, me eyes are up here, ya swot.”
“Oh, be nice to him, Molly! You know the bloke’s got a thing for strong women. And let’s
face it, ma petit fleur, you’re about as strong as they come. Can’t say as that I fault his taste.”
Molly Beaumont blushed prettily as she kissed her husband on the top of his bald head.
“Right!” Carl yelled, straightening himself up as he got everyone’s attention. Much like every other person since the dawn of time, having one’s parents being so affectionate in public caused him to feel a bit of disgust. “We’ll be airdropping deep into enemy territory. Let’s try and minimize collateral damage though, hey? I actually like New York and would rather not see it get leveled. First thing’s first, we retake the Citadel’s grounds and establish a beach head, then work our way out from there. We need to push our way to Time’s Square and hold it until midnight on the 21st. Give the bastards no quarter; this is a clean sweep. Let’s move out. Cenere, you’re with me and the 8th. Dismissed.”
∞∞∞
Two hours later, Carl, his parents, Cenere, and the gang were eating dinner in the dining room of the mansion, stationed out of a broom closet near the engine room of the Crowley. Each carrier was packed to capacity with Pitlords, some of whom were topside to act as point defense should any stupid demons come for a row. Inside the mansion, the gang and their guests were laughing about things that had happened during the quest, and all raised a glass in Sachi’s memory.
The Aircarriers were moving at a flank speed of 200 knots, so the trip would take a little over half a day. They would be assaulting with the dawn. After they’d supped and both Bella and Molly had a chance to coo over Camilla, both giving pregnancy tips, they departed for their appropriate ships by way of skiffs launched from the catapults.
A fifth ship was flying with them, a yellow submarine that had recently been outfitted with a nexus drive salvaged from a UN air carrier that had been shot down over the Atlantic. Caspian and his crew had worked fervently, salvaging and installing the power source in record time, as well as the large ray-like wings skirting the ship’s nominal waterline. The wings were retractable when the ship switched to aquatic mode, but fortunately allowed enough lift to keep the lightened submarine afloat as it matched speeds with the carriers. The UN had been demanding the return of their property, but as the ship had been shot down over international waters, the Captain of the Goldfish declared it a salvage job and gave them the bureaucratic equivalent of a raspberry as he’d cited maritime law.
Within the submarine, Caspian smirked as he gently stroked the control console of the Captain’s chair. He flipped the switch covers for all four missiles up and down, the manic look in his eye growing in intensity as his smile crept upward. Each of the four heavily modified tomahawk cruise missiles were loaded with a custom payload of five hundred disruptor grenades, which would be dropped while flying overhead, as well anti-air fragmentary micro missiles. The plan involved the Goldfish descending back below the waves to continue towards New York Harbor while the air carriers split off to come at the city in a pincer attack, launching fighters and dumping twenty thousand armed and angry Pitlords on the city.
As soon as the Citadel was retaken, the rest of the party except for Cenere, would be transported to the surface and placed under guard. Especially Camilla to keep her safe during the retaking of New York. But, for now, Caspian would enjoy fiddling with the knobs. The activator key was on a chain around his neck; without it inserted, he could play with his little red covers all he liked, but the missiles would remain where they lay in wait. He smiled at the thought of flipping the switches for real.
∞∞∞
A swarm of vespid buzzed as they turned a parking structure into a new hive. One vespid, larger than the others, munched on a horse brought to it from Central Park as it jabbed an ovipositor into an unconscious human before the head could be bitten off by one of the attendants and the body sealed in a waxy cell for the larval stage to grow and consume before pupating, finally bursting free to sow more hatred and pain in the world. The queen poised her ovipositor over the abdomen of a young woman and was about to thrust it home when there was a loud fwoosh sound outside.
The various wasp-like demons started poking their heads out of the hive in time to see a man riding a cruise missile as it flew vertically, whooping and hollering as he clung to the missile, a cowboy hat in hand. He yanked downward on a small manual actuator and the side panels of the missile fell away, unleashing hundreds of impact detonating grenades attached to small parachutes. One enterprising vespid flew up to investigate and was promptly banished, as were any demons within fifteen feet of him.
The remaining grenades slowly descended to the ground, detonating and clearing an area of demons, undead, and things that could comfortably fall under the category of “other eldritch horrors.” Moments later, the morning sky was filled with black parachutes bearing ten-foot-tall mountains of muscle and scale, each eagerly waiting to reach the ground. Some didn’t bother to wait, shooting at demons from the sky.
Demons and undead began crowding each other as the archdevils descended. They were hungry for spicier flesh than human, and they salivated even as their fellows dropped around them, drilled through the skull by rapid fire weaponry or skewered with rods of white-hot infernal iron rebar launched from modified infernal crossbows. Apparently, a few smuggled copies of various videogames made on earth had made their way to Hell, as several of the personal weapons the Pitlords brought to bear were custom made and enchanted to work even if physics and good sense said that they shouldn’t. A few Pitlords fell to these demons, but the vast majority landed safely and proceeded to joyously slaughter demons wholesale. Grenades flashed, miniguns belched infernal-iron death, and muscle-bound Pitlords sang impious death metal as they hewed heads and limbs from their ancient foes.
Carl lifted his minigun and lit a cigarette on one of the glowing red barrels. He lowered it slightly, allowing Cenere to light his own as he buried a mithril throwing knife in the forehead of a particularly sneaky vespid. The ground began to shake, and Cenere and Carl both froze for a moment as they heard a familiar grinding, scratching sound.
“No, it can’t be.”
“Could’ve sworn we wiped them out.”
The cracked and abused asphalt buckled downward, then erupted upward, exposing the ravaged sewer system beneath their feet and an entire hive of darkspawn.
“Oh, bugger,” they said simultaneously before running away from the gray and purple swarm that flowed upward.
Pitlords around the city began fighting these earth-bound demons wherever they popped up, spraying them with lead, iron, fire and magics, doing their best to keep the filth from escaping New York. The various graveyards surrounding the Big Apple began emptying as skeletons, zombies, and ghouls flooded the inner city and suburbs, only to be cut down by the brave men and women of all four faiths, creating pockets of safety in a sea of troubles.
And above it all, fighting off the swarms of anzu, vespids, and other loathsome demons on the wing, were the combined air forces of the UN, the United States military, and the Church. On the horizon, some distance away, the dragons that had left their homes worldwide to bask in the glory of their returned god flew in numbers not seen since the last World War. The dragons were flying as one again and as they approached The City, they flew in tight formation, led at the front by a silver dragon, one whose scales had an oddly rainbow-like sheen in the morning light. They all roared as they swept the Abyssal force from the sky, hurling spells and dragon’s breath at their hated foes.
Safe from it all, and glaring out at the battle below, was Camilla, aboard the Crowley as it launched spell fire from the flight decks and shot down demons that got too close for comfort. Her place as a member of the Black Hand was down on the ground, chanting hexes and shooting demons. But her fiancé, that sweet, stupid bastard, had ordered her to remain in this place of relative safety. And, as her nominal boss’ boss’ boss several times removed, she couldn’t refuse his order. Even if it had been a very low blow to pull rank on her at a time like this, pregnant or not.
She rubbe
d her distended belly as she fretted about the battle below. These pantywaists wouldn’t even let her man one of the anti-aircraft guns, and had sequestered her either in the mansion or within one of the armored observation decks near the bridge. Ever present were the other two members of the party, on bodyguard duty, to keep her from going off and doing something foolish, like helping. Zeke shrugged every time she glared at him, Krang simply stood with his face utterly devoid of emotion as he processed the battle going on below.
“They can’t possibly win. Not with that approach. But I suppose they know that already. This is just a delaying tactic, in the hopes that someone screws up.”
“Hmm.”
Krang looked back at Camilla. He sighed, then pointed down at the battle below. “The father of your child is risking his life to make this world a better one for the kid to grow up in. I understand that you’re rightly pissed at him, but let’s face facts. You’re pregnant. You’d be far more a liability than help, and he wouldn’t be able to do what he does best. Sing and fight. The two of us would have joined him, were it not for the fact that if we did, you’d probably snag a parachute, and jump over the side.”
Camilla glared at Krang then turned her head back to the window. “And how would you stop me if I tried? Can’t hurt the baby, after all.”
Zeke rubbed the bridge of his snout. “If it were me, I’d dose you with a mild sedative, strap you to the bed-”
“Kinky.”
“-and place you under guard to make sure you didn’t try to reenact the bomb scene from Dr. Strangelove. Or something equally suicidal, like running off into this battle with that,” he said, pointing at her belly, “weighing you down, and keeping you from fighting at your best. Have you taken a leave of your senses?”