Demon's Throne

by K D Robertson

  A grim thought, Rys realized. If he got hit by one of those astral lances, nobody would need to dig a grave for him.

  Grigor shouted and hurled his axe at the angel. Its wings flared with light and it deflected the axe using its staff. The axe flew end over end into the distance.

  Fara’s tails had been busy, and Rys felt her unleash a powerful force blast.

  The angel’s entire body snapped to face Fara, moving so fast that Rys nearly missed its motion. To Fara, the angel would look like a badly controlled puppet that moved between poses instantly.

  A barrier of white light appeared in front of the angel and the force blast exploded futilely on it. The angel dismissed the barrier, then pointed its staff at Fara. Right before it did anything, the angel stopped and looked down.

  A glowing red circle appeared beneath it. Rys prepared his next spell even as he summoned hellfire into his ritual circle. The angel’s wings snapped shut around it, forming a protective cocoon.

  Hellfire consumed the angel, but Rys knew it remained unharmed. Angelic wings were formed of pure astral energy, which the angels used for their astral power as necessary. In many ways, an angel’s wings were very similar to a fox’s tails. They could even become fluffy, if the angel wished it.

  “Fara, I want you to prepare your spiritual flames,” Rys snapped. They only had a few more seconds before his ritual ran out.

  She stared at him. “They won’t hurt an astral being.”

  “Just do it,” Rys said. “It’s not a real angel.”

  Nodding, Fara leaped backward. Her tails weaved patterns behind her and began to conjure her blue flames in huge quantities around her.

  “Grigor, I need you to distract it,” Rys said.

  Any second now.

  “Understood, General,” Grigor said.

  Never a word of doubt from ol’ Grigor.

  The hellfire vanished, revealing a floating ball of blue light where the angel had been. Nothing happened for several long seconds.

  It was playing dead. Or guarding against any surprise attacks for when the hellfire vanished. Rys had never worked out why angels remained balled up for longer than necessary, but either explanation worked.

  He used the time to prepare his next spells, pumping infernal sorcery into his axe.

  Finally, the angel uncoiled its wings. A dozen astral lances formed around it, but Grigor was ready for them.

  The demon prince let out a war cry. He leaped upward at the angel.

  The lances blew Grigor’s chest apart, sending chunks of armor and flesh flying everywhere. Grigor’s eyes blazed and he kept his arms tense, one fist cocked back for a punch. The angel’s wings punctured Grigor’s arm before it hit him.

  Fara let out a strangled scream. Grigor dangled from the angel’s wings.

  Rys remained where he was and continued to summon as much of his magic as necessary.

  Power surged within Grigor. His entire body shimmered, and afterimages appeared in his wounds. The angel summoned more lances, blowing additional holes in Grigor.

  But every wound, no matter how severe or where it was, simply produced an afterimage of Grigor’s original self. Rys started to make his own move at this point.

  Grigor’s revival Gift finally peaked, and the afterimages became flesh and blood.

  Angry flesh and blood.

  Grigor roared. His free arm grappled the angel, crushing its arm. When it tried to pull its wings free from his other arm, the prince grabbed them with the hand that the angel had punctured.

  More astral lances appeared around the angel, but they were slow to appear. The angel struggled in Grigor’s grip, unsure if it could harm the demon prince yet. Until the revival Gift ran its course, Grigor was effectively invulnerable.

  The angel clearly felt it had enough time to wait out Grigor’s Gift. It held the lances in the air, waiting for some sign of permanent injury from Grigor.

  Rys didn’t let it wait Grigor out. He leaped up at the angel, his axe raised.

  The angel tried to turn, but its wings were held tight. Maybe it could have teleported, but Grigor also prevented that from happening. The lances hovered in the air, unable to do anything. They had already been brought into the world, and the angel couldn’t alter a spell he had already cast.

  Rys’s axe slammed into the angel’s back. Rys dug deep, cutting through the shadowy exterior of the angel. He had strengthened his physical muscles, which combined with his strength Gift to make the blow strong.

  Then Rys released his hellfire spell into the wound. As blood red flames gushed out of the angel, Rys kicked off its back.

  “Grigor!” he yelled.

  The demon prince grunted and let go of the angel. Instantly, he dropped to the ground like a lead weight as the angel retracted its wings. An unearthly screech rose from the fake angel. Rys’s axe remained lodged in its back.

  “Fara, hit it in the back with your flames,” Rys called out.

  Despite the direction, it turned out not to matter. The spiritual flames swallowed the angel whole, as they ate up the burning embers of Rys’s hellfire. Every inch of the angel’s body was covered by the blue flames.

  Normally, Fara’s spiritual flames only consumed beings based on sorcery. Demons, ordinary monsters, and anything summoned or cast using sorcery. They harmed people, because most life sustained itself on magical energy.

  But an angel was a purely astral-based being. It didn’t have a magical essence. In many ways, it was the opposite of an infernal. Presumably, that was why it had appeared to oppose Rys and Grigor. Its immunity to many of Fara’s anti-sorcery techniques made it well suited to fight her as well.

  Despite all of that, the angel screeched and fell to the ground. The blue flames ate at it and Fara piled more on, her tails spinning fast enough that Rys wondered if she was about to take off.

  When she finally stopped, the angel had vanished. Not a trace of the shadow remained.

  Behind them, the barrier crackled for a second. Then it vanished.

  Silence reigned.

  “How did that work?” Fara asked. “And what was that about, Grigor? Do you love getting yourself nearly killed?”

  “My revival Gift gives me regeneration abilities superior even to a greater replacement Gift while it is active. So long as I do not die before activating it, there is very little that can kill me,” Grigor said.

  “Replacement? That’s the infernal regeneration method, isn’t it?” Fara bit her lip. “I’ve heard about it, but that’s my first time seeing it in action. It was… it was reversing time, wasn’t it?”

  “Not quite,” Rys said. He sat down on the ground and stared at the obelisk. “Replacement Gifts are the infernals’ answer to the powerful anti-regeneration methods that angels and other divine races have. The sword of an angel can sever the concept of your arm ever being attached to your body, making regeneration impossible.”

  Fara blinked. “You mean if that thing hit us, the wounds were unhealable?”

  “The Lilim can heal them, but it’s a long process. Only Mary has the necessary talent,” Rys said. “But replacement Gifts get around this. They’re causality-based—that is, they make it as if the cause of the damage never happened. This breaks reality for a moment, which is why we see afterimages. It’s the world ‘replacing’ the damage that shouldn’t have happened.”

  “So, reversing time?” Fara repeated.

  “Nobody can truly alter time. You’d destroy yourself before you managed it. But this is the closest thing. Angels do it all the time. They can reform their bodies, change their genders, take on different shapes—the list goes on. Nothing short of direct damage to their soul or the connection between it and their body slows them down,” Rys explained.

  “Right. That wasn’t a real angel.” Fara nodded.

  “It was close enough. You could feel a soul, somehow. It used astral power.” Rys shrugged when Fara looked at him. “Look, we were in the middle of a battle. The reason you can hurt it is because
I covered it in hellfire that had already started burning up its body. Hellfire tries to convert physical things into magical energy. Your flames consume magical energy. The two mixed and supercharged the process. It’s like how some fires get worse when you throw water on them.”

  “But a real angel would survive it.”

  “Yes. It would have rebuilt its body, just like Grigor did with his Gift.” Rys scowled. “They’re hardy bastards. But this one was created from that shadow thing, so I guess it couldn’t do that. Or something. I don’t know. I just guessed it wouldn’t have the same level of regeneration as a real angel, because that would mean the Labyrinth could create one.”

  And the idea that the Labyrinth could replicate a genuine angel terrified Rys.

  “They’re all this powerful?” Fara asked.

  “No. This was roughly the level of a Primum, who are the elite warriors of the angels,” Rys explained. “A Primum was somewhere between a demon prince and a demon lord in strength. The Chief Primum was a threat even to me, although the one I remember was rather green. Her predecessor picked a losing fight with Ariel.”

  Turning the Devil Queen’s palace into glass had been a great intimidation tactic. Unfortunately, Ariel survived, then turned every angel responsible into a living, screaming decoration in her next palace. She wheeled them out for every major event, to remind people of her power. The former Chief Primum had been kept alive in that awful state for centuries.

  Rys wondered what happened to those angels when the Infernal Empire collapsed and all the infernals vanished. Probably nothing good.

  After his break, Rys stood up and approached the obelisk. It didn’t react to him even when he touched it.

  “Truly a mighty battle,” Orthrus uttered, reappearing next to Rys. “Destroy the conduit. That is the only way to weaken the seal.”

  Feeling as though he was a lamb being led to the slaughter, but having no better options, Rys hefted his axe.

  After a brief pause, he slammed it into the obelisk. Chunks of dark stone flew everywhere.

  The runes along the obelisk lit up and light filled Rys’s vision.

  Chapter 21

  Rys’s vision cleared and he found himself standing in the cavernous cylinder outside the chamber.

  Except this wasn’t the same dwarven citadel that he, Fara, and the others had fought their way through.

  Thousands of infernals occupied the walkways. Hulking demons patrolled alongside stout dwarves, wearing the uniforms of the Infernal Empire. All the doors stood open and countless knowledge devils scribbled away at paperwork. Imps and human messengers ducked along the walkways.

  The knowledge of what this place was struck Rys all at once, as if his memories had been restored.

  This was the central support column of the dwarven city-fortress of Marnn. It was built into the Marnn mountain range, which sat less than fifty miles from the eastern coastline of southern Gauron. The dwarves had hewn this fifty-story cylinder from the rock centuries ago.

  The Infernal Empire used it to project power over the region. Rys had commanded a battle front during the Cataclysm from here alongside a demon lord known as Ironspike.

  Oddly, Rys found himself standing at the very bottom of this fortress. Five noble devils stood in front of him on the raised platform. They glared down at him. Sneers decorated their faces.

  Rys wore full armor and a general’s uniform in the Infernal Empire. His runic axe hung from his belt.

  This was the past, he realized. He was seeing events from the Cataclysm, when he had defended Gauron on behalf of the Infernal Empire.

  Why had he forgotten this memory until now?

  A noble devil opened his too-pretty face to speak. Fury rose within Rys, unbidden.

  “The reapers are retreating. The battle is won and our armies are depleted. Our duty to the Empire is done and all is safe. Nobody is sending our armies to attack the offshore Reaper fleets or attacking the angels,” the devil said.

  The reapers. That was a name that Rys hadn’t heard for some time. The other divine race that had been destroyed in the Cataclysm.

  “We have our orders, General Talarys,” a hooded noble devil added coldly. “And you will follow them. Are we understood?”

  Blinding rage threatened to overcome Rys. It took every effort he had not to reach out and cave the closest devil’s skull in. He gritted his teeth, but his glare intensified.

  The war council returned his fury with disdainful looks, although one of them looked nervously at the nearby guards. A pair of Arcas devils stood nearby. Their faces expressed gleeful optimism that Rys would step out of line and let them fight him.

  This anger was an old foe of Rys’s, he recalled. Lacrissa used it to control him. Bind him to her will. His emotions were shackled to her desires. Whatever she wanted, Rys would be pushed to achieve. Anger had proved the most effective motivator. Rys’s temper had been deeply amusing to her.

  Lacrissa loved the story about how he killed his first love, because her family defrauded him.

  “I have my orders,” Rys ground out.

  The five devils shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, as if suddenly aware that Rys served a greater master than them.

  “My duty is to protect the coast and the Empire,” Rys continued. “I’m not here to preserve your pets or fulfill your dreams. The reapers will return, as they have every time. Archangel Samael destroyed two legions yesterday. This war will not end with handshakes and infernal contracts, but millions of dead. I’m trying to make sure we have a smaller share of those millions.”

  “Know your place, mortal,” one of the devils snapped. He wore a suit with plenty of frills. “Her Majesty placed her faith in us to command. You are only here to assist General Ironspike. We command, you follow. Understand?”

  “No.”

  Rys clenched his fists and every knuckle in his fingers popped at once. The noises reverberated throughout the entire cavern, causing many infernals to stop. Some had already been subtly trying to eavesdrop, but now many more watched the proceedings.

  “My mistress gave me my orders. I follow them. No others,” Rys said. His vision wavered. If he didn’t suppress or unleash his fury soon, then Lacrissa might intervene directly. “Do you think you can stop me from commanding my own armies?”

  Every movement in the cavern stopped at once. Knowledge devils peeked through doorways, mouths agape. The guards gulped, wondering if they were expected to fight against a rogue general.

  A mere human “pet” threatened five noble devils appointed by the Devil Queen herself. To many infernals, what they witnessed was impossible.

  A minute passed. Moisture dripped onto one of the walkways, breaking the silence.

  Plip. Plip. Plip.

  Rys opened his mouth to give one final warning.

  Then the crack of magic filled the chamber, overwhelming all of Rys’s senses. A surge of red light eclipsed everything for a moment. Rys tried to use his magical senses to detect the intruder.

  Power slammed down on Rys when he found the intruder. Unyielding, absolute power hovered above him.

  A shiver of dread ran down Rys’s spine. He knew what this was—both in the past and the present.

  An archangel hovered in the air high above Rys and the council. Ethereal hawk-like wings formed of blood red energy spanned the width of the cavern on either side of the archangel. He wore golden armor and white robes over every inch of his body, and his face was shrouded in magical darkness. An eight-foot greatsword intricately crafted from silver, steel, and gold occupied their right hand. It glittered menacingly with red angelic runes.

  Azrael, the Archangel of Vengeance.

  Each archangel came color-coded for easy identification, was the joke.

  In truth, Rys suspected their different wing colors were so that he knew how badly to shit his pants when he saw the archangel. Raphael was white, so he might have survived. By contrast, Samael’s black promised death and little else.

  Azrael ki
lled everyone he encountered—hence the blood red. He was the warrior of the archangels. One of the five most powerful beings in Harrium.

  And he had just teleported past every protection in the citadel, right into the safest chamber, where the region’s war council was currently meeting.

  “Infernals of Marnn, you have been judged for the disruption you create within Harrium. I, Azrael, shall carry out your sentence of destruction,” a deep, lyrical voice intoned directly into Rys’s head in an infernal language—Low Devil, to be precise. Whispers of the original voice echoed at the edge of Rys’s hearing.

  The Angelic Tongue. The special ability that angels possessed to speak in the native language of everybody listening. Words spoken in the Angelic Tongue translated themselves within the target’s head to whatever language was most familiar to them.

  Like a hammer striking in Rys’s head, something ushered him into action. Fury blanketed his mind, shoving any sense of terror away.

  Every infernal remained still, transfixed by Azrael.

  Who did that archangel think he was? The judge of the fucking world? Rys’s thoughts blazed as he forced himself into action.

  “Lock down the fortress!” he roared. “Guards, sound evacuation alarms. Everybody take shelter.”

  Azrael ceased his preening in the middle of the cavern upon hearing Rys’s words. The archangel looked down at him, as if confused that somebody is capable of fighting back.

  A moment later, Rys was in the archangel’s face. His muscles seared from the infernal energy rushing through them, and his legs ached from the leap he made to jump this high so fast.

  The runes of Rys’s axe glowed as he swung it at Azrael’s head.

  The air itself shuddered, then Azrael blinked a step backward. His sword snapped upward instantly, meeting the axe with a thunderous crash. Hellfire exploded from Rys’s axe and was met by red light from Azrael’s blade.

  The impact numbed Rys’s arm. He hovered in the air for a moment, his momentum keeping him next to Azrael.