Klay shook his head.
“That is not life,” Nemuel said. “He is another beast.”
“He has free will.”
Nemuel sniffed. The elves boiled onions and funneled the mixture to Tyrus. They sniffed his midsection, checking for internal wounds, and set to work with their knives, needles, and thread. Tyrus let out a shrill scream.
“Why didn’t he bleed out?” Klay asked.
“Who knows?”
“A hard man to kill.”
“That is not a man.”
III
Tyrus drowned in delirium. His runes kept him awake as if he could fight, but his mind could not withstand the agony. A few times, when they moved him or bumped him, a new pain struck hard enough to sober. He caught fragments of his surroundings, impressions of trees, elven faces, bodies manhandling him—he sensed Klay nearby. He was dimly aware of a small miracle: he had not been captured by the Roshan. Tyrus feared waking on Azmon’s etching table.
Delusions took over. Old memories mixed with nightmares, impossible to ignore. He saw things that could not be real, shedim and dead men walking in Paltiel. He forced his eyes shut, tried to block them out, and the images danced on the insides of his eyelids. His mind rebelled against him, refused to turn off the waking nightmare. Closing his eyes should bring on darkness, but it only made brighter horrors.
“This isn’t real.”
A man asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I killed them. Make them go away.”
“Relax. Try to rest.”
“I’ll kill them again.”
“Hold him down.”
Tyrus tried to swing his fists, a terrible mistake. His broken body tore more, the pain filled his mind with a red haze, and people piled onto him. He choked from trying to scream and feared he had swallowed his tongue. Why didn’t the elves kill him? What had he done to deserve this?
Tyrus dreamt of the Bottom of the World. He and Azmon left the dwarven Deep Ward to spend endless months walking through black, twisting tunnels. They used their runes to see, not torches, and the darkness became heavy. Tyrus had forgotten the sun and the sky and the birds. He wanted to see colors again, wanted to smell green things. Moss and mushrooms and damp filled the Underworld. Things smelled spoiled, but that was the Demon Tribes.
Long days were wasted fighting the tribes as they worked their way lower into the Underworld. Azmon usually drove them away with sorcery, but Tyrus often brawled with dozens of huge, hairy, dark-fleshed creatures. Milk-white eyes spat hatred. They wore crude armor made of disks and fought with clubs and blades as often as tooth and fang. The tunnels filled with furious howls echoing on and on into the Deep.
One day, the tribes vanished. No more guttural challenges or rocks or arrows or tests. Azmon pointed at the reason why: square stones, more masonry that they followed to an ancient causeway, crumbling and cracked. The carvings looked dwarven.
“The Lost City,” Azmon said. “A path to old Skogul.”
“But where are the Tusken?”
“Don’t worry about them.”
Tyrus had a duty to worry. The dwarves considered them a great enemy and spoke of Blood Quests to reclaim the Lost City. Not long after they found the causeway, his worries were confirmed when the Tusken found them. Once, they had been dwarves, and their boxy frames and thick arms echoed their ancestry, but black skin and teeth that looked like boar tusks marred their faces. Red eyes—Tyrus had seen them before, but it took a moment to place: trolls and orcs. The half-dwarves had mixed with the Demon Tribes.
They wore black armor, thick plates like the dwarves in the Deep Ward, and carried cruel maces with hooked heads. A few of them stood bigger than Tyrus, seven footers, but most were under five feet. The largest one shouldered two clubs and gave them the evil eye. Tyrus had room to swing his sword and prepared to engage.
“Wait,” Azmon said.
Azmon spoke a language filled with grunts and snarls. The Tusken looked at one another. They deferred to the brute with two maces. He stepped forward, and Tyrus tensed but the monster knelt. He spoke low, more animal sounds. The rest of the Tusken knelt as well.
“Come,” Azmon said.
“You cannot trust these things.”
“Careful. They might understand.”
“They knew you were coming?”
“I arranged it with their master.”
Tyrus said nothing. He knew Azmon spoke of an ancient rite to converse with the shedim. If the idea of an alliance with the demons unnerved him before, seeing what they had done to the dwarves made it worse. Tyrus thought of Ishma and dreaded the day when the people of Rosh might look like the Tusken, half-breeds, demon spawn corrupted by the Nine Hells.
“Come. They’ll take us to the Black Gate.”
“Azmon—?”
“We cannot turn back. Hurry before they grow suspicious.”
Tyrus and Azmon followed the deformed Tusken through the Lost City of Skogul. Unlike the other cities of the Deep, it had fallen into disrepair and smelled of the Demon Tribes. Stones had crumbled to the floor, buildings were cracked, and parts of the city were little more than piles of rubble. Cook fires offered a little light and filled the air with a pungent haze. Everything looked burned.
Around one corner Tyrus watched a line of Grayskins—orcs and goblins—passing baskets of food. The line stretched for miles down a dark street, wrapping around buildings, and large Tusken guards snapped whips to keep it moving. The supplies fed a large castle with burning windows and what sounded like a large feast.
“What’s in there?”
Azmon said, “Their king, but he should have orders to leave us alone. I don’t want to waste time with another audience.”
Deep within the heart of Skogul, past a small army of burly half-dwarves, past iron gates, bulwarks, trolls and shattered doors, they found the Black Gate. The Tusken bowed low and gestured at a large stone doorway, but they would not speak to them or move. A giant could pass that door without ducking. When Azmon and Tyrus entered it they saw, hundreds of yards away, a circle of stone covered in runes and set in the side of a rock wall. The circle was alive, pulsing with a black light that looked like a pool of lava. Flames jumped out of it, and left large scorch marks up the wall and ceiling of the cave. Black ooze morphed and swallowed orange ooze.
The chamber reeked of sulfur. Tyrus wiped his eyes and coughed. He had an itch in the back of his throat. When he glanced back at their escort, he saw they were gone. The Tusken abandoned them.
He asked, “What now?”
“We see if these runes will work.”
“Let me.” Tyrus approached the gate, sword drawn. Walking foward took effort because all of his instincts screamed at him to run away. “Are there any spells, or something? Do I just walk in?”
“Let me protect your gear.”
Azmon spoke strange words, and Tyrus did not feel any different. As he grew closer to the gate it gave off a powerful heat that made him wince. His cheeks burned, tightened, and he tested the lava with his sword. The blade dipped in and out without being destroyed. He reached a gauntlet into it, expecting his fingers to burn off. The lava had the consistency of thick honey. In the fever dream, he begged himself not to enter the thing again, but Tyrus had no control. He watched himself nod to Azmon, take a deep breath, and step into the gate.
He had to fight past a hallway of lava, unable to see or breathe, and the churn of the gate threatened to lift him off the ground. The lava blistered his face, and he used an armored forearm to protect his eyes. His toes dug into the pathway, and he swam more than walked until he hit air and landed on his face.
The Nine Hells looked worse than the gate. Tyrus blinked at fumes that burned his eyes, and though he struggled to see, the upper levels of the Nine Hells stretched before him. A burning landscape of red flames, black clouds, and orange lightning that cracked the sky. On the ground thousand
s of specters shuffled about in mobs while above them demons with black wings and jagged spears circled.
Tyrus thought, then and now, that he didn’t belong there. That this was a mistake. That his master had gone insane. He turned to leave, when Azmon fell through the gate. Azmon coughed and retched while Tyrus helped him to his feet.
“We don’t belong here.”
“I know.”
“We should leave.”
“We’ve come too far to turn back now. The shedim can save Rosh.”
“Let Rosh burn, Azmon. We don’t belong here. This is a place for the dead.”
“Tyrus, calm yourself. They seek to use us, and we will use them. You will see. There is no need for Rosh to burn.”
Tyrus wanted to argue more. In his fevered state he wished he had abandoned his oaths to Azmon and let the Tusken kill them both. The memories tortured him. Tyrus had been tested and failed. He had dozens of chances to stop Azmon and never took them because, back then, he still hungered for power no different than Azmon. Only years later, after he learned the price, had he known real regrets. The shedim tricked them into bringing demons to the mortal world. The beasts were little more than fiends of the Nine Hells wrapped in the bones of dead men.
Instead of abandoning Azmon, Tyrus protected him as demons took an interest in the gate. They flew in formations overhead, circling, but not attacking. He watched them, and noticed a figure walking toward them through a red haze of heat. It appeared to be a man, wrapped in black robes, bulbous and bald with one milk-white eye.
“Greetings, mortals. I am Gorba Tull of Kassir. It is good to see that you survived the gate.”
Tyrus whispered, “The False Prophet?”
“A title Ithuriel gave me, when I killed Alivar and began the Age of Chaos.” Gorba smiled. “But you aren’t here to talk about ancient history, are you? Come, Azmon of House Pathros and Tyrus of Kelnor, father is most eager to see you. Be warned, however, that the way is blocked. Others control the lower levels, and they will fight to keep him in chains.”
Azmon said, “We understand.”
“There is a hidden stairway that will take you past most of the armies. I, myself, cannot follow you beyond the sixth circle without starting another war.”
Gorba escorted them through Pandemonium. Azmon followed with his head lowered, but Tyrus could not help scanning all around them for danger. Demons licked their lips at him everywhere he looked.
Tyrus inhaled. His eyes shot open to trees and a forest, back in Paltiel. Foolish thought—he had never left the woods. He breathed better, but the slightest movement felt like burning coals under his skin. Sharp pains lanced through his entire body. Gasping made it worse, and he struggled to calm his breathing without crying out. His lungs conspired against him. Every breath hurt, and if he gasped, it only became worse.
He was on a board or a cart. He couldn’t say and struggled to focus. He heard footsteps and saw a blurry green cloak.
“Klay?”
“I’m here. What is it?”
“Food.”
“They’re afraid it will make you sick.”
“Need more food. To heal. Meat.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“Starving. Need food.”
“All right. Take it easy. We’ll feed you more. You need to rest.”
“Nightmares. Can’t sleep.”
“The Father of Lies isn’t here, Tyrus. Moloch is locked away. Relax. The battle is over.”
Tyrus tried to sit and thrashed from the agony. Each movement brought on more pain, and he wanted to run away. Hands grabbed him. They burned where they touched. He fought and, through the blur of pounding blood, heard someone repeating that moving made it worse. The voice barked at him to hold still. He fought against every instinct, to calm his body, endure the torment, and breathed a little easier. The pain had not vanished, but receded.
Had he spoken while feverish? “What did I say?”
“Nothing. A nightmare. Try to relax.”
His lucid moment faded. Tyrus felt the delusions crawling back into view. The pain overwhelmed his senses. Nightmares did not bother him. His memories did.
Tyrus stood beside Azmon in the deepest level of the Nine Hells. They spent an eternity climbing down frozen stairs, occasional veins of blue and white in the black ice. The cold burned his cheeks, dried his eyes, and cracked the back of his throat. Azmon looked possessed. Tyrus heard no voices but listened as his friend spoke to them. A stilted, one-sided conversation, and for the first time, his emperor sounded like a whipping boy.
“We are closer, master. No one followed.”
At the base of the stairs, two enormous gargoyles guarded a door. They looked like statues carved from purplish ice until their eyes opened and burned with orange flames.
“Begone, mortals.”
“You will not free him.”
Tyrus stepped in front of Azmon, sword ready. Even in his fevered state, he thought the demons were too big. The real fight, years ago, had been simpler. The shedim stood ten feet tall, ferocious fighters, but his mind tortured him, and he remembered them as if they were thirty feet of fangs and claws. They had faces all over their bodies, blazing eyes, and on their sides were dozens of mouths twisted in agony. Tyrus struggled to remember if the faces were real or a delusion.
“This isn’t real.”
The demons charged. Tyrus answered with steel, Azmon with sorcery. Tyrus hacked and kicked while Azmon sent bolts of lightning and fire. Their claws rent gashes in his armor. Their hide chipped his blade. One fell, burning, and Tyrus severed the other’s head. Along the demon’s flank, dozens of mouths groaned and screamed and whispered things Tyrus would never forget.
“You must not free Moloch.”
“Fools.”
“You know not what you do.”
“You doom us all.”
The revolting sounds died when the body stopped twitching. Tyrus wanted to drag Azmon away from these horrors. Let Rosh fall. Let Ishma and everyone else die. They did not belong in this place.
Azmon walked past, oblivious. “We are close, master.”
In the lowest hell, they found a spire of black rock suspended with chains as thick as a city gate. It hung above an abyss of black energy and purple lightning. Azmon led them down the chains, climbing over links, until they found a series of heavy stone doors. They worked through them, two at a time, Azmon breaking their seals while Tyrus guarded the rear. As Azmon destroyed the runes that held the doors shut, the Nine Hells stirred. A horde of demons swarmed the spire. They wailed and screamed that the Father of Lies must not be freed. Tyrus didn’t understand at first, but as the words became clearer, they nauseated him.
The demons feared Moloch.
“I’m trying, master,” Azmon said. “The runes make no sense. I’ve never seen them before.”
Outside, Tyrus heard claws and wings. He shouldered the door, and a force smashed the other side. The stone jumped in its frame. If it broke, they were dead. Tyrus might fight a few in the narrow hallway and buy Azmon a little time, but the swarm would tear them apart. His armor was ragged, and his sword was chipped. Tyrus doubted he could fight many more.
Tyrus said, “Hurry.”
Azmon traced the runes engraved in the rock. He spoke words of power, and a few glowed white. The light pulsed, faded.
“I’m close, master. Close.”
Tyrus strained against the door. “I can’t hold them.”
Demons pounded the door, heavy and forceful. Cracks formed. Tyrus gritted his teeth and waited for it to crumble, and then white light exploded behind him. The pounding stopped. The Nine Hells moaned. Tyrus heard the horde wail, “They freed him. They freed him.” Azmon disappeared into the light. Tyrus followed, sword raised, into a room of white stone and bright lights, so clean that it blinded him.
Azmon knelt before an angel in chains. The body resem
bled a man, only larger, nine feet of lean muscle. Chains, links as big as fists, splayed its limbs to the four corners of the room. An iron mask bound its head. Another chain anchored the mask to the floor. Their steel had a strange texture, but on closer inspection, runes were carved into every link.
“Tyrus,” Azmon said. “Break the chains.”
“Who will guard the door?”
“Listen. They flee. Break the chains.”
The worst part of the nightmare—he should have refused. A sweep of his sword could have killed Azmon and ended the madness. Tyrus liked to blame Azmon for inviting demons into Rosh. The truth was more shameful because back then, Tyrus also hungered for power. He wanted to lead the armies of Rosh across creation. Traveling to the Nine Hells filled him with doubts, not guilt but fear. These demons would betray them. He knew it, but he didn’t want to suffer. Only years later did he understand the enormity of his sins.
“Tyrus, break the chains.”
“No. This isn’t real.”
The nightmare robbed him of control. He screamed at himself to stop. The memory continued, and he inspected the links, ran his sword blade through one and used it as a lever to twist. He strained to the point of bursting, blood rushing to his face, veins popping out of his neck, fighting that one link. Azmon hovered close, speaking words of power. The iron twisted, groaned, and snapped. One arm freed and helped them free the other faster until the creature fell to the floor.
“His helm next.”
They broke the locks around the neck. Large white hands reached up and withdrew the iron mask. The face beneath was beautiful, perfectly proportioned features with wide eyes, a sharp nose, and full lips. The eyes opened, and they had crystalline irises, a combination of light blue and pink.
“You have done well, my children. Exceedingly well.” Mulciber laughed. “None of the overlords thought you were a threat.”
“Mulciber.” Azmon bowed. “My master.”
In his memories, Tyrus felt giddy at the creature’s approval. He had not felt that way since he was a small child and his mother praised him for helping with chores. He had been so young, the chores felt more like an adventure than work. In the nightmare, Tyrus saw Mulciber’s trick. He spoke with his mother’s voice, only a little bit deeper.
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