Madger cringed back, waiting for the blow, but as Kharick spoke she relaxed. She glanced at his hand and then back up at the dwarf’s face. His bald head like an egg in a nest.
“Shake his hand, Madger,” Gerran said.
Madger slowly offered her hand, the other continued to clutch the blanket. She’d seen her father do this with the mountain men. Kharick took two of her fingers in a firm hold, his hand thick with callouses and shook it up and down once.
“There ya are, lass. First handshake, eh?” Kharick thumped back over to the work bench and shook out one of the bolts of cloth. “Seem I be back just in time with this. She be needing something more than a blanket.”
Chapter 3
309 Br. winter
“A devil’s bargain must always involve the transference of a soul. Once the agreement is made, the soul is forever bound to that devil.”
-Dealings with Devils and Demons
“Languages and their writing are as varied as the peoples of this world. There are even languages other species can’t speak. There is the odd triangular writing of the---. I’ve even heard of a language written with nothing but pictures. Pictures! Can you believe? How long would a book be if written with pictures?
“So then, why is it so odd for people to understand there are still people in the southern continent that cling to fragments of a language, used before the Age of Sands, that mark ennuciations in the middle of the word with a capital letter?"
A rmagon was barely lucid enough to handle his utensils at the long table and play the proper aristocrat. His father liked to see his sons with refined manners and quiz them on the politics and nobility of the Hells and the Mortal plane. It was difficult to focus his sight on anything beyond the plate in front of him, but he still lifted his gaze, languidly, toward DraKar. His brother was swaying, like a child struggling to stay awake while sitting up. He’d drift forward and startle back upright before leaning to the side then snapping back to a suitable sitting position. His eyelids drooped heavily and his grip was weak on his utensils. His food was untouched.
Their father would be displeased with the show.
The drugging had been going on for months. Armagon’s ribs had been repaired, dragged back into place through deep incisions in his sides. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that might have been the beginning of the drugging. The surgical wounds were completely healed now beneath the fine robes he’d been forced into. Sorris didn’t want any chance of them breaking protocol and having Mammon’s displeasure focused on him.
Sorris walked behind DraKar, bringing a scroll to Mammon, and stepped on the sarpand’s tail, making him startle and his eyes snap open. “Try the veal.”
Bringing food from the Mortal plane was a testament to Mammon’s gluttonous desires. The table was packed with decadent foods, roasted meats, honeyed cakes, grilled fish, sautéed vegetables and bowls piled high with bright fruits.
DraKar delicately cut off a small bite of the meat and meticulously pulled it from his fork with his teeth.
Armagon suppressed a frown at the sight. He dropped his gaze back to his gold plate of food. The headache from forcing his eyes to focus the distance to DraKar, across the table, came as a raw feel of sand behind his eyes. He blinked and kept himself steady and upright by gripping the edge of the table, his claws poking holes in the tablecloth and imbedding in the redwood beneath. He eased and clenched at the wood, his fingers sluggish and his mind wandering on simple things he should know.
How was eight spelled? North?
Basic hunger made Armagon reach for his food. Ingrained manners, as much a part of his muscle memory now as sword work, made him use his utensils. He wasn’t sure when he’d last had something other than demon-flesh to eat, or something without the oily residue of Sorris’s drugs.
The only other person allowed to sit at the table, and at its head, was Mammon. He’d taken to shrinking his guise from the tall bloated creature he was, to a regal human. His skin shifted from the oily, stretched red to pale and smooth. His face handsome, square jawed, with a pointed nose, and his black hair slicked back from a sharp widow’s peak.
“A missive from archdevil Asmodeus, of the Ninth plane,” Sorris said as he bowed his head and held out the platter with the scroll on it.
Mammon took the scroll and broke the wax seal with a snap of magic. Few besides the archdevils had the strength to break the enchanted seal of another archdevil. “Interrupting dinner with my sons,” he muttered. “Best be important.”
Sorris remained still, not having been dismissed, but there was a shiver beneath his robes.
Mammon’s dark eyes flashed red as he scanned the letter. “Lost the tome?” His fist hit the table making the dishes jump and wine splash. “Suspects Arkhed’s agents…”
DraKar’s goblet tipped and the wine spilled toward him, staining the tablecloth red and dripping into his lap. He stared at it as though confused why he was wet.
“Wants my sons to retrieve it again?” Mammon’s voice rose in volume with every sentence. “I’d already sent them on the errand before. I am not risking my sons against Arkhed again.” He crushed the paper in his hand and stood, glaring down the table at the two sarpand. “Nor another army of demons. We lost in enough in that war on Limbo against that twisted creature’s forces.” His body began melting, growing, boiling out. The pale skin burst as rolls of red fat ballooned. The delicate fabric of his robes strained and tore. The rings snapped and pinged as his fingers swelled. The necklaces shattered as his neck thickened. All except one, the medallion with the insignia of the Third plane. The chain grew to accommodate the increasing bulk of his natural form.
Mammon’s meaty red fist caught Sorris’s robes as he stood from the clattering table and broken chair. He pulled the white demon to him, lifting him from the floor. “Not that my boys understand what I said. I want them obedient, not drugged. If you can’t do it I will find another who can. And I will have that demon demonstrate his prowess on you first!”
***
Armagon stirred awake in his chains as he felt something wet and cold trickle down his neck and back. Thick and viscous, but not his blood. Sorris had stopped drugging them, so it wasn’t a hallucination.
DraKar lifted his head at the sound of Armagon’s chains rattling.
The black fluid traveled over Armagon’s arms and wings, slipping beneath the manacles and chains. The metal snapped away and the chains clattered to the floor. Armagon’s legs shook when the last support was broken away. Dried blood cracked and peeled away from his scales beneath the rough smock he’d been allowed.
“Get off Khain.”
The black fluid leaped from Armagon and reformed into a skeletally thin man covered in a robe that looked like liquid leather. His features made him appear human, but he looked more like a skeleton with a coating of tar than a flesh and blood being. His dark swirling eyes focused on Armagon. “My lord.” His voice had a strange resonance, edged with sarcasm. The bow that followed was made with a mocking flourish.
Armagon ignored the minor insults and worked to free his tail from the last cuff.
“Your spelling was atrocious.”
“I was drugged.”
Khain shrugged and turned to help free DraKar, his hands shifting fluidly to break the blue sarpand’s bonds. “At least you could spell North.”
DraKar raised an eye-ridge at Khain. “Sorris was wise enough to stay out of reach this time, and ordered the other minders to do the same. We couldn’t use the usual injuries on them to direct you.”
“Sahra will be disappointed you two were allowed clothing this time.”
“Shut up, Khain,” the brothers said together.
Khain ignored the order. “If they start building your cells much tighter, I might have to use the door next time.” He held up a finger as the lock on the door turned. “Ah, there she is.”
The door slowly swung open, and a blonde elf woman stepped through, wiping demon blood from her blade. She had a tall, lithe
build and long, narrow, pointed ears that reached the top of her head. Her green, almond-shaped eyes assessed the situation, and she made a moue of disappointment.
“You told me they were naked.”
***
It wasn’t a true escape. DraKar and Armagon didn’t leave the Third plane of the Hells. But they had gotten to DraKar’s tower. Khain and Sahra stood with the brothers around a table enchanted with a model to mimic the landscapes of the Third plane. Mammon could shift the lands of his demesne and the model would reflect it. Mammon’s citadel rarely shifted, but the moat, deep chasms, and fire pits around it often moved at the devil’s whim. The boiling green and black River Styx bordered one side of the land, the rest broke off into a swirling abyss of lighting and thunder, and red and black clouds.
The room was windowless, several lamps lined the walls, and their flames danced wicked shadows over a collection of armor, weapons, and shelves of books. The smell of sulfur and burnt hair permeated the air, even without any demons in the building. The dark stones the building was made of didn’t reflect any of the light, but seemed to suck it in, keeping the room dark.
“Aren’t you supposed to be watching the portal to Limbo?” DraKar asked.
Sahra scowled at the blue sarpand. “I was told to rescue you two. I can’t help it if I’m given conflicting orders. Besides, there hasn’t been any word from Limbo while you’ve been gone.”
“He forgets,” Armagon said. “Likely twenty years passed while we traveled for two weeks?”
Sahra nodded, her long straight hair cascaded around her pale face, past her delicate pointed ears. “Yes, but I do have a watch set on the gate.”
DraKar grunted and let the matter drop. It was the closest Sahra would get to an apology. He’d never been good at deciphering the time difference between the Hells and the Mortal plane like Armagon.
“I did hear the Titan’s Tome was taken to the Seventh plane, a gift from your father to the king,” Sahra said.
DraKar’s tail lashed, but he didn’t bother to correct Sahra. They all knew if Mammon’s name was spoken while in his realm it would draw his attention. Though he would’ve preferred she’d used different moniker.
“An agent from Arkhed stole it,” DraKar said, his eyes focusing on Sahra like a raptor spotting its prey. “And took it to Limbo.”
“Never mind the damned book,” Armagon muttered, saving Sahra from further chastisement. “We need to find our crystals.” He rubbed at his clothed chest, still raw and stitched from their tortures. He couldn’t heal by fire like DraKar, but it had taken hell-forged spines on the flail to cut his scales. DraKar didn’t have that same toughness.
“They weren’t stored with your weapons and armor,” Khain said. “Or your old chambers, Lil’ Brother.”
Armagon ignored the name. If he gave Khain a sense of how much he detested the term, he would only use it more. “Nowhere in the citadel?”
“Nowhere our people can find,” Khain answered.
“But there was that small caravan sent to the Seventh plane,” Sahra said. “After you were brought back here.”
Both brothers looked at her with a raised eye-ridge, an expectant look, waiting for more information.
Sahra continued, “Word is, it was payment to the Seventh plane. Maybe the caravan included the crystals, besides the book? Your father never could figure out what the spell was in them and why more power, magic, whatever, was being added to it. Maybe he sent it to be examined on the Seventh plane?”
DraKar and Armagon shared a glance, they knew what was being added to the crystals, but they hadn’t shared that information, even with their closest allies. They were too precious to chance someone in the Hells finding out about them.
“See if you can confirm that is where the crystals are,” Armagon ordered. “We’ll start planning for a trip to the Seventh plane.”
“Yes, my lord,” Sahra and Khain answered and left the room.
***
Armagon reclined on his bed; one of the few indulgences he enjoyed was something soft to sleep on. Soon he wouldn’t have the luxury of resting in a bed. His wings splayed out over the edge of the stuffed mattress as he settled back on the feather pillows. DraKar had crafted it with magic, there was no other way for them to have such extravagances in the Hells. He could sleep on stone, in a tree, through wind, rain, and snow, but a well-stuffed bed kept his nightmares to a minimum.
The room was completely dark, but Armagon could see the ebony cut stones the tower was made of, the austere furnishings, and a stand that held his armor and weapons. He knew the room; he didn’t need to look at it with his black, swirling eyes. Several weapons were still within easy reach, one under each side of the mattress, another stitched into a pillow, and others lay out in more obvious places. It wasn’t that Armagon didn’t trust his brother, they both relied on one another completely, but he felt better with his own defenses, as well as DraKar’s.
After a decade of searching, their contacts had finally confirmed Asmodeus had the Legacy Crystals. They had yet to receive word as to where on the Seventh plane their crystals were being kept. It seemed Asmodeus hid the crystals away just as securely as he had the soul of Armagon’s love.
“Selien,” he whispered into the empty room. Even her name brought a blanket of comfort over his heart.
Her elven face was still etched into his mind, even after the centuries of absence, as though she were a part of him. He’d forgotten many faces, but never hers, pale skin, like the moon, dark almond-shaped eyes, and straight hair the color of the night that fell around her face. Her skin had felt like silk under his leathery palms, her scent reminded him of fresh cream. She had been warm and gentle and her laugh had tickled his heart. He could still hear the songs she used to sing to him. The way their bodies nestled together as he taught her how to use a sword, then she would dance with him, humming her sweet music.
A pounding on the door broke Armagon from the memories. Only DraKar knocked in such a heavy fisted manner. He left the bed and opened the door for him.
“It’s time,” DraKar said.
Armagon nodded. If his brother saw the shadow of pain still roiling beneath the surface of his eyes, he stayed mercifully silent. He returned to his room, donned his dark plate armor, and secured several weapons before strapping the black sword between his wings. He met with DraKar again in the hall.
“Sahra will meet us at the river. Khain is still working on the Seventh plane,” DraKar said.
“The distraction?” Armagon asked as they reached the bottom of the tower.
“The message got through after the caravan from the First plane was destroyed. The flight of dragons has started coming through the portal.” DraKar cast a ripple of magic, opening a doorway to the outside.
“That should keep his attention for a while.” Armagon sneered, years of negotiations to get an ambassador from the First plane sent to the Third just so he could be killed in Mammon’s name. Mammon, of course, denied ordering the assassination. One of the thin tenets of peace between the planes was the assurance of the safety of their ambassadors.
Tiamat, the queen dragon and archdevil of the First plane of the Hells, was sending some of her dragons to the Third plane for revenge. The flight didn’t consist of all the dragons Tiamat commanded, but it was enough. It was a testament to her anger that she had sent so many of her children, though few could truly claim direct lineage from her. Mammon would have to attend to the powerful dragons himself and find a way to quell Tiamat's rage.
DraKar sealed the tower behind them, the wall appeared whole, and there was no obvious doorway into the structure. The brothers took to the air, flying toward Mammon’s citadel. In the distance, massive silhouettes of dragons were closing in.
The demons in and around the citadel rallied to repel the dragons, all eyes focused on the approaching threat. Mammon stepped out of his palace, his bloated legs and flat feet were steady, even though his frame rippled with fat. The rolls of flesh stretched h
is mottled red and black skin. His flat face was smeared with drool, as he licked at a wide nostril like a bull. DraKar and Armagon landed next to the archdevil and awaited their instructions.
“Harry them, my sons,” Mammon slurred past thick lips
Neither sarpand offered any form of acknowledgment, but they didn’t argue at being called his sons either. Now was not the time to draw attention. They took to the air again and flew toward the approaching dragons, the massive bodies like a thunderhead descending on the citadel. Several of the dragons belched forth flame and lightning in warning, but none broke formation as DraKar and Armagon flew at them.
The brothers gained altitude, passing above the dragons, and the ones who slipped by them were glad they hadn’t been the sarpand’s targets. The dragons’ main task was to assault the citadel, not die in the barren fields before it.
“There,” Armagon said as he slowly circled above the dragons with DraKar. He pointed to a smaller black dragon, a young one. On the tip of the dragon’s horn was a silver ring, an identifier for one belonging to Armagon’s guild of assassins.
DraKar sent a massive bolt of dark energy directly into the black dragon’s back, the magic crackled along the dragon’s wings and sent it spiraling from the sky. Just before crashing to the ground, the dragon flared his wings and slowed his descent enough to not injure himself. DraKar turned to the next ally Armagon pointed out, his illusion of attack ready. The power he put behind it was enough, unless the spell was studied closely, that no one would be able to tell it was doing no harm. His next spell hit a blue dragon. It spiraled out of the sky, as DraKar’s power continued to crackle over its body and cushioned the fall it had feigned.
“Two more,” Armagon called over the thundering sound of the wings below them. Three other dragons peeled off formation, these he didn’t know. He drew his sword. No other attacker would be saved from the battle. Their arrangement had only included the four he pointed out.
The Titan's Tome Page 4