Twixt Heaven And Hell

by Tristan Gregory

  Compared to that monster, this thing before him was easily tolerated. The Thralls, which seemed to despise the presence of other demons – especially the one which had created them – ignored it. It never spoke to the Warlord, merely ran its one bony hand over the map. It had done so for days now, ever since its first appearance in the grand hall. Traigan had left it to its work, and the usual comings and goings of Pyre had continued despite the unnatural presence. Sorcerers looked askance at it. Soldiers avoided acknowledging it entirely. It ignored all equally.

  The only other man in the hall just then was a grizzled old chieftain, veteran of many battles and one of the highest ranking non-sorcerers besides the Warlord himself. He oversaw the arrival of new warriors to Pyre, and to their training – such as it was.

  "Almost two thousand, my lord," he replied to Traigan's last question. "A strong tribe from the south. They sent every fighting man they had once they had been... visited."

  "Very good," answered Traigan. "I want them sent to the third camp as soon as they are deemed ready," he commanded, and dismissed the man. The chieftain left the room quickly after a hurried salute.

  Two thousand was good. Pyre's manpower had been heavily depleted over the last months – as had Bastion's, no doubt. Whichever side could recover the fastest would strike the next blow. He did not know how many of Bastion's soldiers came from outside the their settled lands, but for Pyre it was a sizable portion. Their terror bands had to stray further and further each year to find new people. Some came willingly, awed by these highly decorated men with weapons of steel. Others had to be... persuaded, but eventually all made the journey.

  A change in the creature drew Traigan's attention, and he stepped closer to observe. Within the last few moments, the creature's movements had lessened, its hand beginning to caress a certain part of the map repeatedly. Its small, bald, wrinkled head was held drooping – Traigan had not yet seen the thing's face. As it touched the map once more, it raised its head and looked at the Warlord.

  At least, it seemed to – though again vaguely human, the features were blurred, like a man's face rendered crudely in wax. Where the eyes should have been there were merely pits.

  With its eyeless stare still fixed on Traigan, it stabbed a single long finger at a certain point of the map – the plateau north of Threeforts Valley, where so recently Pyre had failed to oust the enemy from the valley.

  "Yes. That was the report," the Warlord nodded, avoiding meeting the gaze of the putrid creature before him. "That is he. That is the one we wish to destroy."

  Brown flesh squeezed tight over the skull as it smiled a thin, mirthless smile. Then it shuddered, smile disappearing. It drew its hand away from the map, and the flesh all over its body seemed to convulse and writhe, making Traigan draw back in disgust.

  Without a sound, it continued to shudder and draw into itself, falling to its knees beneath the layers of foul cloth. Finally it collapsed entirely and only one hand remained visible. As Traigan watched, even that shriveled and crumbled into dust.

  Swallowing back bile, the Warlord turned away. He knew his plans were on course – the creature's task had been complete, that is all. He called over one of the door guards.

  "Clean that up," he commanded coldly. The man gave the pile a wary look, making no move to follow orders. Traigan waited the barest of moments and repeated his order. He was reasonably certain it would not do the man harm – if Traigan could face true Demons, certainly this supposedly hardened warrior could deal with the leavings of a small one.

  The man dithered another moment, but then wisely decided that disobeying his Warlord was the more dangerous path. Traigan generously ignored the hesitation. He left the grand hall, wanting to get away from the stink that had survived the creature's presence. He hoped it would not linger long. Even the air of Pyre, bordering on odious even to those long accustomed to it, seemed like a breeze fresh in comparison.

  As Traigan breathed deeply to clear his lungs with the night air, a triumphant smile spread across his face. He had always known he was singular amongst the Warlords of Pyre, even discounting not being a sorcerer. His achievements outmatched those that had come before, but only in scale. Now, he had secured the distinction with an act that was more unique.

  There had never before been a Warlord who dared command the Demons.

  ***

  The Gryphons rose with the dawn. It was a particularly beautiful sunrise, with the vivid hues of the rising sun hanging incandescent over the silhouette of the distant mountains. Out of pure habit the Gryphons went about erasing the signs of their stay, despite being securely in friendly territory. Fires were doused and the ashes scattered, matted grass was brushed with branches to restore a more natural appearance. While the men worked, Robert held counsel with Darius, with Kray standing silently beside.

  "Wizard Harr is being tended at Fort Turast," Darius said, indicating the structure visible to the south. "Arric wanted me to speak with him. The man has been delirious since the battle, something to do with the counterspell – if there is a danger to it, we must know."

  "The spell made him sick?" Robert asked with a frown. He'd been around Darius long enough to know that was unusual.

  Darius nodded. "It is very strange – the wizards who were with him claim he never completed the spell. When he woke, he began babbling something about where the portal led, something horrible on the other end. "

  Kray spoke then with urgency in his voice. "Not at the other end, Darius. In between."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I told you when I first came to Bastion. The sorcerers warned every man to use the spell that it leads through Hell. They warned us to close our eyes as we stepped through."

  Darius's eyes went wide. "You think they meant it literally?"

  Kray's paused before answering. "I did not think so at first. Now I fear they did. It would explain the trouble your – the wizards are having duplicating the spell for Bastion. It always requires too much power. The spell must support the existence of what is transported."

  Kray's brow furrowed. He was speaking of theory now. His own skill with magic afforded him no practical knowledge of these things, but that proved less a barrier than Darius might have thought to a man so fiercely intelligent as Kray.

  "It would be the same for the sorcerers. Even sacrifice would not yield enough power. Unless they send the men somewhere else first."

  "Where location has no meaning," Darius muttered. "Kray, that is brilliant."

  The wizards had not been able to transport men more than a few miles. The needed power grew with leaps and bounds, and to enact a spell from Bastion to the border would have required the combined power of more wizards than had ever lived at one time.

  If the sorcerers could send men through Hell, though, surely Heaven could serve the same purpose – and be much less burdensome to those who used it, no doubt. He did not know how the Angels would react to their home being turned into a mystical crossroads. Darius would not be the one to ask – and he certainly wouldn't want to do it without their express permission. A problem for the researchers.

  "I need to give this information to the Council immediately," Darius said. "It makes the counterspell a great deal more hazardous."

  As Darius turned to see how far along his men were in their tasks, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

  There was a feeling in the air. Something was... off.

  Puzzlement became foreboding, and Darius looked about for some kind of threat. There was none. The feeling grew, a gathering wrongness spoiling the new morning.

  Then Kray gasped. "No..." he said with terror. His eyes wide. "Darius, it's - "

  Darius had recognized the feeling as well, and spun to shout some warning to his men – though what he would say, he had no idea. There was no preparing for this kind of attack.

  From a point of nothingness in the air, a creature of nightmare clawed its way into the world with a sound that was half bestial roar, half insect chitter. It wa
s massive, with muscular legs as long as a man was tall. The body atop them was covered in bony plates, and from it sprouted four arms, all of them ending in a pair of long, thin claws.

  Soldiers ran from the monster as fast as their legs could take them. The unfortunate ones closest to the Demon died on the end of those claws; the arms moved like a striking snake. The gaze of two bulging, bloodshot eyes – eerily human in appearance, though set in a boney, monstrous head that looked like no natural creature – swept from side to side, seeking something.

  Distracted by more running soldiers, it bounded for them, claws tearing and rending in bloody joy. It seemed to grow angry then, and as he ran Darius felt massive energies surge forth. The Gryphons were all dashed from their feet by a scratching, biting, unseen cloud, bloody lacerations appearing on their exposed skin. Though Darius tried to defend himself, his efforts were useless in the face of a Demon's power.

  It resumed its search, looking intently at the fallen, moaning forms all around it. Its claws lashed out seemingly without thought, slaying any in its reach. Then its gaze fell upon Darius – and the wizard knew he had been targeted.

  This Demon had come for him.

  Abject terror caused him to strike out, and the frantic blow had all his might behind it. He had the momentary pleasure of seeing the beast flinch slightly, and snort in annoyance, or pain – or contempt. It stomped for him, the shaking of the ground slowing Darius's attempts to scramble away. The Demon sucked a mighty breath into its lungs, the earthly act a mere mask for enormous power that focused in the space of an instant. Darius knew that his life was over.

  The strike did not come. Puffs of blood burst from the Demon's sides and it seemed to grunt. Darius and his attacker turned as one to see Kray, holding a fistful of dirt and pebbles taken from the mountain soil. Bit by bit, it came flying from Kray's hand, flaying the Demon.

  "Run, Darius!" Kray shouted even as he continued his assault. The Demon shook its head in irritation as pebbles continued to embed themselves in its hide or strike off the armoring bone plates. Confusion seemed to have hold of it. It looked back to Darius who was still lying, terrified, at its feet. A deep, rumbling grunt shuddered forth from its throat.

  Then Kray struck again, this time with magic alone – a weak attack. It had its effect. Turning full towards the ex-sorcerer, the Demon released the fell magics it had gathered, a spell so forceful it could be seen with the naked eye – a blight upon the natural world, darkening the air itself. Kray screamed as it hit him.

  Darius had been scrambling backwards on all fours, unable to remove his horrified eyes from the Demon. All in one instant his control returned, and a flash of shame drove him to his feet – Kray had saved him, and he was leaving the man to the tender attentions of the Great Enemy! Just as he was about to strike out again, he was again driven from his feet by a flying tackle.

  "Sir, we must escape!" Robert shouted at him.

  Darius attempted to fight off his lieutenant and rise again to the aid of Kray.

  "Sir, no! You cannot save him! Save yourself!"

  Coming to his senses, Darius heeded his friend. The fear that had been so strong in him had given way to a much more familiar emotion – anger. Even as he rose to his feet to escape, he struck one more futile blow. Instinct made him to reach beyond the flesh – a Demon was no creature of bone and blood. This time, Darius attempted to do as the Angels did – force the creature from the world, sending it back to Hell.

  For the briefest of moments, the Demon's strength wavered. It seemed to calm, its eyes losing some their terrible frenzy.

  It did not last long. Robert urged Darius into a sprint as the Demon recovered and whirled on the fleeing men. It bounded for them, closing the distance in two gigantic steps. Slashing claws smote and threw them both – a long jagged cut was torn into Darius's back, though he felt little pain. Landing several feet away, he was stopped from rising when the Demon's foot came down on his leg. This time, Darius felt it, and howled in agony. Again, anger shared his soul with fear.

  Behind him he heard another deep breath as the Demon prepared the magic that would end his life. Darius tried to fight. He tried to defend himself. His every effort was warded off and torn away with nary a trouble. Then the Demon struck.

  An unearthly screech rose from Darius's throat as his soul attempted to shake off its bindings and answer the beckoning of the beast. He was afire with pain – he could feel each fingertip, each toe, and every scrap of tortured flesh in between. The pain consumed him such that time stretched – what was in fact the merest sliver of an instant seemed to stretch on, and on, and on...

  From out of the sky streaked a form like a falling star, a savior from above. It smote the Demon, knocking it from Darius's prostrate form. The terrible creature was sent reeling, stumbling and tripping over itself from the force of the collision.

  On the ground Darius lay, his eyes were and unseeing. He was neither unconscious nor awake, alive nor dead. He was poised perfectly on the head of a pin, and a fall in any direction would be his doom.

  The Archangel Aethel rose up in his full glory, and unlike before – when he appeared to the men of Bastion – he was enormous, matching the Demon for size. His wings extended to their full span. The Archangel turned his head and saw Darius. His wings relaxed from their challenging pose, and Aethel half turned to the fallen wizard. Hand and wing reached out as one; healing magic surged forth.

  The pin upon became a pebble, and then a plateau. Darius's soul ceased its attempts at escape, and with a relieved groan the wizard lapsed into sleep.

  From where it had warily watched the Angel rescue its prey, the Demon roared a challenge. Aethel turned away from the wizard, and his wings again spread wide. The hand that had reached in aide to Darius now strayed to the Angel's belt, grasping the hilt of his blade.

  Aethel's voice was heard weaving peaceful, joyous words into a song of surpassing beauty. The sword was drawn, its blade outshining the sun in splendor worthy of Heaven.

  The Demon roared again. The song rose.

  The Great War continued.

  ***

  The Demon's cries reverberated through the Valley, drawing the attention of the watchers on the walls of Fort Turast. Those with sharp eyes could discern two huge figures in the distance.

  A wizard, commander of the fort, burst from the stairwell to the highest tower the fort had to offer. He was breathless, having run from the depths as soon as he felt the activity to the north.

  "What?" he asked of the guard in confusion. "Why?"

  A bewildered look was his only answer.

  More roars shook the valley as the giant, whirling battle continued. It was an impressive sight to the soldiers, but to the wizard the brawl was but a sidenote to the colossal energies they unleashed upon each other. Their physical forms were only a symptom of their presence in the mortal world. First and foremost, the Aeonians were beings of immense magical power. Anything near them was in danger of being caught up in those storms, and annihilated.

  ***

  "Hurry!" Pollis shouted to the two behind him. "He fell over this way!"

  "It's too close!" spoke up one in protest, though he did not slow. "We'll get ourselves killed!"

  "No one's gonna cry for you!" Emanuelle rebuked the man and kept pace with his cousin. To their relief, so did the other.

  The three soldiers made their way around the edge of the forest area, giving the duel between Angel and Demon a wide berth. It was not easy – when the two mighty figures clashed, one or the other was often thrown a great distance, and the fight covered a huge amount of ground.

  Even so, Pollis would not hesitate to run between the Demon's legs to get to his Captain. Or so he told himself.

  He was moving so fast that he well nigh tripped right over Darius, lying in the destroyed vegetation of the Demon's wake. Pollis felt for a heart beat, and was rewarded with a steady, gentle flutter against his hand.

  "Alive!" he exclaimed with joy. "He's here, and
alive!"

  Alive their Captain was, but the wizard was not in a good way. One leg was crushed, broken and bleeding in countless places, and his skin was covered with the same lacerations that covered the soldiers. Through the blood that drenched him, Darius's flesh was cold to the touch.

  "His leg," Emanuelle said worriedly. "Can we - "

  "It doesn't matter!" cried Pollis. "We have to get him out of here now!"

  The cousins each grabbed a shoulder and made to lift Darius. The other called for them to hold. Bringing forth his sword, scabbard and all, the man used the lashings to secure both of Darius's legs together with the blade as a splint.

  "Good!" Pollis said with frantic smile. "Let's go!"

  The three soldiers ran with Darius lifted atop their shoulders, their fear giving them speed. Behind them the Demon roared, and the Angel sang. It was obvious even to the soldiers that the two combatants were not merely using sword and claw against one another. Trees and grass were set alight or withered all around the newly declared battlefield, the ground torn by foot and magic alike. It gave them renewed haste as they bore Darius north, into the forested mountainside.

  Pollis heard the soldier behind him curse, though the man did not slow. A quick glance behind him revealed a face that had grown even more forlorn, on the verge of tears. A steady stream of curses flowed from the man, as potent as only a soldier could craft them.

  Seeing Pollis look back, the man merely said: "The lieutenant."

  "Can we - "

  "No! Gone. Keep going!"

  Tears came to Pollis's eyes as well. His fellow renewed his cursing, and it seemed to rob him of none of his breath. Blinking away the blur, Pollis kept running, though they were now well into the trees. There was no telling how far away was safe, and the soldiers intended to run until their legs gave out beneath them.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Aeonians did not tire as men did, and until one gained the mastery the titans would duel. Time meant nothing to such beings. For hours now they had fought. The land around them was scarred and pitted from the Demon’s flailing assaults. To those upon the walls of Fort Turast it seemed the Angel was the greater of the two. In truth they were correct. Aethel was mighty amongst the Choirs, second only to Makaelic himself amongst the Angels that had come to the world of Men.