Tyrus
was unsure of how long he had been falling. He had been falling long enough
that the pain in his neck had stopped. Falling long enough that he knew he had
to have died, finally. The Hellknight commander, Grand Lictor of an entire
continent, had died at the hands of a batch of adventuring lunatics.
A
cruel smile crossed his face when he thought of the damage he had inflicted on
the other man, the only one who could stand toe-to-toe with him. He was sure he
dragged the orkish boy out of the mortal coil as well. He considered the ruby
rod in his hand, the billowing black cape. The regalia of Asmodeus; it had
served him better than the emperor, at least.
It
had been an eternity, a blink of an eye, not long enough since then. Tyrus had
no illusions of where his soul was going. It was destined for the pit. He had
briefly entertained the idea of going to Caceri, Gehenna or possibly Archeron,
but the smell of sulfur soon filled his soul’s nostrils and he stopped falling
in what he knew was his final destination.
The
throne room was vast, extending into darkness beyond Tyrus’ vision. He had
fallen in a kneeling position before a throne that also extended into the
darkness, vast beyond the scale of his eyes. The man who sat on the throne,
however, was only the size of an ogre. His red skin practically glowed in the
dark as did his almost flaming eyes.
“My
lord.” Tyrus said, already starting to weigh his options. There was a tingling
at the back of his head, like someone was trying to reach him with telepathy.
He ignored it and kept staring straight ahead.
“Don’t
‘my lord’ me,” boomed the man on the throne. His voice was brimstone and
malice, his mere presence struck a chord with Tyrus’ shell. Was this fear? “You
turned your back on the Baatezu and I the second you took the regalia from the
emperor. Who benefitted from that betrayal? Tyrus did.”
“The
band of rebels killed the Black Emperor, I picked up where he had left off.”
“You
brought them back to their full strength.”
“I
would not wish to crush them after they had been wounded.” Tyrus said simply,
rising from the kneeling position Asmodeus had forced him in. “It would not
have been a just end to their story. And then, what would I do? I am suited to
lead a band of warriors, not a country.”
Asmodeus
gestured, pulling the ruby rod into his hand as well as the black cloak of
office Tyrus had donned. The cobalt armor felt more comfortable, even though
Tyrus knew that it was a projection of his soul stuff.
“And
yet, you failed. The Empire is crumbling even as we sit here. I cannot
interfere anymore, and my hold on the flow of souls from that plane wanes. Do
you understand the consequences of your actions, Tyrus?”
“Your
emperor fell first. Your hold was already gone, ‘my lord.’ I was cleaning up
the mess that he left. And I did. The rebel leaders are dead. The adventurers
that were the head of their army had their bodies broken by your rod. I dragged
them all out of life before I died.”
The
darkness seemed to laugh with Asmodeus as he rose, brandishing his rod to the
side as he strode towards Tyrus. “Do you know why I brought you here, to my
palace in Nessus?”
“I
assume it’s to teach me a lesson about failure before you inevitably twist my
soul into the shape of a Lemure.” The entire idea sounded extremely unpleasant
to Tyrus. Waiting centuries to maybe even become an Imp sounded grueling. A
fate that was his death, he mused.
“No,
no. It’s to offer you a second chance.” Asmodeus took a fighting stance,
holding the massive red rod in one hand. “If you can best me in single combat,
I’ll restore you to life.”
There
was the itching again, bringing with it images of a mass of fallen angels
descending into hell. A race of spiked monsters fought against them. Asmodeus
was at the head of the fallen divine host, doing single combat with…
“So,
to teach me a lesson.” Tyrus said blankly, pulling himself into a fighting
stance. Brawling was never his strongest suit, but he was going to be damned if
he gave up here. Literally.
There
was only a cruel smile in answer as the first blow from Asmodeus came lightning
quick, shattering his breastplate. It knocked him back into the darkness. It
hurt all over, probably due to the fact that his body was merely a projection
of his will. And Asmodeus was going to break it.
“Tyrus
Darkson, I am going to make sure that you suffer as almost no mortal has. And
then, maybe, if you’re still coherent enough to continue opposing me, I’ll have
you entombed in Caceri. Nerull still owes me a favor…”
The
next blow felt like it shattered his arms, his legs, and the armor that was on
them. He was left standing naked in front of one of the most powerful beings in
the multiverse. But Tyrus was steel. He was unbreakable. Even without the
armor, he was still the most dangerous man in the last century.
An
overhead swing was too telegraphed, too much reveling in the pain he was going
to inflict. Without the armor weighing him down, Tyrus took a step to the side
and landed an uppercut into the King of Devil’s chin, knocking his head back.
Opportunity arose. Faster than he thought he could move, Tyrus landed several
sucker punches in what would be vital organs on a mortal man. Unfortunately,
Asmodeus was no mortal man and backhanded him back to the ground.
“Impressive.
I hardly thought that you would be able to touch me, let alone have the blows
sting.”
Images
came again as he stared up into the darkness above him. The spiked beings
trapped in endless flows of ice. They were calling out, screaming about the
injustice of having their homeland taken from them. Someone must carry their
cause against the fallen rebels, who forged their home into a plane to fight
against their old foes.
There
was a woman, strangely beautiful despite the horns growing from her head. Her
breath smelt of flowers and steamed in front of her. “Tyrus Oncedead, my
knight. My champion.” She was tracing her hands across the scars on his face,
stopping at the one across his neck. “Your heart must beat again. Your story
does not end here, Hellbreaker. It must not.”
He
rolled out of the way of the next blow, watched as it splinted the obsidian.
And in knowing her voice, he felt a surge of power come from the plane outside
of the palace, from the imprisoned creatures in the ice, from those who had
fallen and were now forced to follow the Baatezu’s line of evolution, if they
even managed to be born from souls in the first place.
Her
hands were comforting. Sensations slowly began to rush back into his body, the
first of which being the feel of blood coursing through his veins. A familiar
‘thumpthump’ was in his chest once again. Tyrus felt his mouth split into a
grin again, as he took a deep breath. And Hell breathed with him.
Adamantine
was one of the materials Tyrus always wanted. One of the few things he knew was
just outside of his grasp. He felt the clothes on his skin first, bare
minimums, barely what he was used to. But that was fine. Most of his
imagination was going to the black armor that was wrapping around him, the
designs, not of the order of the rack that he once belonged to, but one his
plane had not seen for many centuries.
Tyrus
stared at the now contemplative Asmodeus.
“I
see… So this was their plan all along. Come now, Tyrus, Baator’s champion. It
seems I cannot pull my punches against you anymore.”
Run, demanded one of the voices in the
back of his head. You’re no good to
justice, us, or yourself if you die here at the traitor’s hands.
Normally,
Tyrus would have heeded the words of his ‘masters.’ But Asmodeus should be made
to pay. With a deft motion, he slammed his shoulder into the greatest devil’s
chest, making a satisfying thunk as
he pushed him to the ground.
His
eyes could now pick up the litter around the throne room. He thanked the
hellknight plate for the minor magics involved in it, and thanked that Asmodeus
was so arrogant he kept the corpses of dead adventurers in his throne room.
Quicker than he was used to moving, Tyrus kicked a shield into his hand, just
in time for it to block the ruby rod’s next attack. He shoved Asmodeus
backwards, in time for him to also scoop up a wickedly hooked axe. Gladiatorial weapons? Here?
It
didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Tyrus thrived in combat, where his body
responded to stimulus the best. He likened it to how the women of his realm
loved dancing; a fight was just better. Asmodeus seemed a little out of
practice with physical combat. He was slow and sloppy, leaving an opening where
Tyrus plunged the head of his axe into the flesh where a heart would be.
The
king of the Baatezu let out a small gasp of pain as Tyrus kicked him from the
axe head, letting him fall onto the floor. He turned away, chuckling to
himself. The bastard would regenerate, but Tyrus planned on being long gone by
the time Asmodeus could stand.
Black
blood poured from the axe wound. Asmodeus could only laugh to himself as he
watched Tyrus leave. Not the outcome he had been expecting, but he could work
with it. The advantage he had over the imprisoned Baatorians was that he was
whole, he was free. As the flesh knit itself together, he sent a mental demand
to the other lords above. While he was powerless to step out of the ninth
layer, (he cursed his sister-wife in this), there were still eight more layers
of hell above Tyrus. The other lords had an incentive.
* * *
Laegel
watched the man who could fell Arch-Devils (at least temporarily) with a
mixture of fear and attraction. She wished there was a word in Planar Trade,
Elven, or even Abyssal for it, as it was a large part of what she felt a good
chunk of her life. The closest was Kaleshtar
in Draconic.
The
vision faded as he began to ascend up glacial steps, an army of ice devils and
asura walking down to meet him. One of the voices in her head likened him to
the ancient heroes, the ones who became gods after their ascension from the
afterlife. She was not sure if he was to be a god, her seer sight refused to
work on him.
“Laegel?”
asked a voice, booming from what sounded like a well.
“Yes?”
She said, turning to look at the source. She couldn’t see him, but knew exactly
what he looked like: A handsome suit of armor.
“What
did you see?”
“The
same man again. This time, he was dead, but pulled himself from the grave
instead of dying. He’s… Terrifying. Mr. Anselm, are you sure that this is who
we must work with? I know your story and his are similar, but…”
“You
know even better than I do, Laegel. Tyrus and I must keep the rising darkness
from swallowing Sigil, from swallowing the rest of the planes. The Oinodaemon,
the Old Gods, Graz’zt, Tenebrous, just… Shit. We have a lot on our plate as the
Ruiners of Kings, eh?”
They
shared a laugh.
“He
and I must form our bands, we must be destroyed by those who offer no true
loyalty, and we must wither away from the stage of the planes, and watch from
the void as everything begins to fall into entropy. In his throne of lies, the
maimed lord awaits, doesn’t he?”
Silence.
She was beginning to realize that this wasn’t what she thought it was. Only a
possible conversation with Anselm. She felt herself begin to start the
outpouring of feelings for him, but as soon as she opened her mouth the armor
began to crumple into dust.
The
dust formed into a skull, the sockets glowing a baleful purple.
You cannot love, Laegel Center-of-All.
Planeswalker. You are cursed, and all that you touch is cursed. Your
involvement with the Helmed God will end up only breaking him. The mercenaries
you hire will only bring his death and you closer to your ultimate destiny.
Now the skull was a vile
black skinned man, his eyes burning pits of fire. He smiled at her and Laegel
felt her entire body start to seize.
“Oh,
my little princess. There’s so much going on in your head that you’ve lost
track of your dear husband.”
“You’re
not my husband, Graz’zt.” Laegel said, feeling her body outside of the vision
begin to seize and froth. “You’ll never be my husband, you’ll never be more
than the outsider who is fueling my visions with this planar alignment.”
“Oh,
I’m hurt. In your previous incarnation Center-of-All, you loved me dearly. I
was one of the only ones who spoke with you. And Levistus. Aren’t the lower
planes full of such niceties?”
“Unity
of Rings speaks to me when the upper planes are aligned. Bahumat occasionally
sees me. So, it is not merely indifference on the upper planes, because they
see me as an individual, not a pawn to be used.”
Graz’zt
scoffed.
“Please,
don’t get so self-righteous. You’ll make my projection here sick.” He smiled.
“But isn’t it hard? To function among sell-swords while your mind is literally
in a thousand places at once? I bet they just LOVE you. Their companion who is
clearly too insane to function, all unaware of you.”
She
had to admit that it WAS nice to be able to focus in a conversation, even if it
was with her demonic ‘patron.’
“My,
is that a bit of pent up resentment. I can feel it washing over me in waves and
waves, Laegel. That’s what I like about you. You’re pent up. Someone just needs
to reach out and… Touch you.” He ran a hand down her back, causing her to
involuntarily shiver. “Break out all of those inhibitions, Laegel. The chaos
and the darkness shall drown you too.”
“I
only need Anselm. He… He PROMISED me that he would come around. He said that he
needed to think on it.”
“Oh,
little bird. A promise means nothing to a man like him.”
“It’s
funny you say bird. A great warrior crow will come from a distant land, be
Anselm’s best chance of weathering the storm brought about by the sons of
chaos, and will be how we… Consummate our relationship.”
“In
one outcome among many! I am getting tired of your drivel, Laegel. You can’t
always just work for the outcomes that you want. The problem with being a seer
is that you’ll always see things you don’t want to see.”
“And
I also have the power to make things happen that I want to happen. Meeting
Anselm. Fighting the Natterer. These are all things that have to happen for the
planes to turn in the way Anselm and I need it to.”
“And
for the way Vecna needs it to.” The Demon Prince spat at the mention of Vecna.
“If he succeeds, I’m not going to say that we’re all going to die. That’s a
little melodramatic, even for me. But the planes are going to stop being as fun
as they are. If he makes it out, well… I saw him in his prime. You saw him in
your visions. We both know his day must not come to pass, my wife.”
“That
doesn’t mean I have to work with you.”
“Oh,
I know who you’re willing to work with, my little song bird.” Graz’zt said,
leaning forward. “I know that I’m not one of them. But that doesn’t mean you’re
not going to. Much of the people working for me are not doing so… Willingly.”
He
reached for Laegel again, but the image was shifting again. Abyss was replaced
by a scene she was already familiar with; Primus. He stared down at her, an
almost sad look on his otherwise emotionless face.
“It
has been so long, Center of All.”
She
bowed, recognizing her Lawful Patron.
“And
it will never be again, Center of Cogs. For I have seen your death, and I fear
it has already happened. I have seen your successor though, and he walks
towards Sigil even now. Anselm and I will guide him to where he needs to be.”
The
vast being only nodded, its two eyes blurring together into one before Mechanus
faded as well. She was kneeling before a ruined throne now. The Asura Lords
stared down at her, each sharpening their weapons and staring at her.
“She
who heralds the end. Center of All, dancing with her her kings to the end of
the planes.”
“Anselm
isn’t my king. Tyrus isn’t royalty, you’re all just the same madmen awaiting
your ‘true king’ as you were thousands of years ago when you first began to
wait for him. There’s no coming, you always have your picks and your heirs to
your throne, and they never come. To. Anything.”
“This
time may be different, our seer who does not see,” Said one blue-skinned woman.
She was miles high with her eight arms dancing around her body. “Our candidates
were… Hand-picked by a patron.”
“Who?
Who would possibly help you mad creatures?”
One
opened his mouth, but he was suddenly Anselm, shaking her out of the vision.
“I’m
sorry Laegel. But I just sensed the arrival of the first of our employees.
Could you go out and meet the first of our Company?”
“Oh,
yeah! I can totally do that, Mr. Anselm.”
* * *
Upwards. Ascending motion. Those were
Tyrus’ mantras as he met the oncoming rush of Devils. He had heard the three
laws of the planes. He had even heard a fourth law, (which broke the others)
that stated few can stand against many if their conviction could hold strong.
And all Tyrus had was conviction. Bristling spears of icy metal met against his
shield and his armor.
They
broke first. Tyrus pushed his way through them, to the insectoid devils,
breaking them open on his axe, on his shield, and on the metal spikes of his
armor. Minutes after he had met them in battle, they broke off. He wasn’t going
to stop, even as he climbed the massive ice flows that spiraled up to the next
layer.
Cania
was frigid. It was colder than anything else Tyrus had felt in his days, even
when he had been assigned to his plane’s south pole. The Baatorians were
guiding him. They guided him past the vast regiment of Asura that were plotting
war against some deity or another, guided him straight to the ice bridge that
led to a portal on the other side.
Unfortunately,
there was a man in his way. He was draped in night and he brandished a ranseur
at the Hellknight as he approached.
“Asmodeus
has told us you cannot pass, traitor.”
“Traitor
means much less here in hell. Haven’t you eight tried and tried to usurp
Asmodeus at least twice in recent mortal memory?” Tyrus said while brushing the
ice devil blood from his armor. Mephistopheles may bare his way, but he was
going to let the arch-devil know he wasn’t to be trifled with.
The
Devil smiled slightly.
“You’re
smart. Handsome. Charismatic. Stronger than any mere human I’ve seen, and to
boot, you have the ancient Baatorians on your side. You’ve heard them in their
prisons here, in Cania. As have I. I have not actually accepted their cries of
help, but you have.”
“I
didn’t really have a choice if I wanted to live. And I did.”
The Arch-Devil
nodded slowly, and then dropped his fighting stance. “Of course. Pass on, Tyrus
Darkson.”
Tyrus
walked past him, but knew exactly how this was going to end. As Mephistopheles
went to stab him in the back, Tyrus turned to knock his polearm from his grasp
and sink the blade of his axe into the flesh just as the neck met the shoulder.
“Nice
try.”
He
brought his knee up into Mephistopheles’ gut and knocked him into the water
below. He ran across the bridge as the water and ice suddenly began boiling as
the Lord of the Eighth bellowed below him.
Tyrus
jumped through the portal, not caring to try and face the full wrath of a
scorned demi-god.
He
rolled out onto a landscape he knew well. The first layer of Hell. The first
sight was the wasted landscape, the cries of torture in the distance. The
second was the massive devil in front of him. He was scaled, his mouth was
massive, and the sobbing belt of angel heads at his waist marked him the lord
of the first. Bel the angel slayer. Without looking, Tyrus knew the portal
behind him was gone.
“Traitor.”
The fiend said simply.
“Obstacle,”
Tyrus replied.
Bel
produced a sword as big as Tyrus was and lowered his stance slightly into a
fighting stance. “You won’t speak so brashly once I part your head from your
body. Maybe I can even add it to my belt, after Lord Asmodeus speaks with you.”
The
Hellknight said nothing as he settled into his comfortable fighting stance.
This was an all-out fight with an Arch-Devil. No fancy tricks, no taking him by
surprise. He didn’t like his chances, regardless of how confident the power coursing
through his veins made him. Bel was no mere ice devil army, or an overconfident
moron like the others.
Tyrus
sunk into his stance just as the oversized blade hit his shield and drove him a
few inches into the ground. He responded with a cut across Bel’s arm, but it
didn’t seem to slow the fiend down at all as he continued his assault, cutting
deep gashes in Tyrus’ armor. Some cut through thinner parts and cut at the
tanned skin underneath.
The
dancing seemed to continue for hours. Every time Tyrus though he had gained an
advantage Bel had regenerated or shown that he wasn’t quite as wounded as the
warrior had thought. As much as he hated to admit it, he was tied with the Lord
of the First, and he was losing ground. He wasn’t as inexhaustible as a Devil,
nor did he have centuries of experience.
“My
knight!” Echoed a voice. The woman from the vision. Was she here?
A
wall of ice encased Bel to answer his internal question. It was followed by an
explosion of pure force, knocking the devil onto his back.
“You
were taking too long, so I freed myself.” Came the dry voice. “A girl can’t
wait forever, you know?”
Bel
slowly got back up, staring at empty air. “You had a sorceress traitor?
Congratulations.” He gestured, which Tyrus knew was a spell. With a quick step,
Tyrus was there as the devil started to cast. His axe bit into Bel’s neck this
time, spinning him around and having him land on all fours as he tried to
recover. The ground spawned shackles that wrapped around his wrists as he
struggled free.
Tyrus
leapt onto the exposed back and put his foot against the base of his left wing.
He wrapped his hands around the wing and put everything he had into the pull,
ripping the wing from the socket. He discarded the wing, smiling cruelly. He
moved to the other, ripping it out as well and leaving Bel screaming and
writhing on the ground.
“Hurts,
doesn’t it?” Tyrus allowed himself a dark chuckle as he brought his axe down
onto Bel’s exposed neck. The head went rolling across the ground, the tongue in
Bel’s mouth lolling obscenely even as it tried to cling to life like a snake
would.
“And
to who do I owe my life to?” He said, looking up to where the voice had been
coming from and where Bel had looked before Tyrus had convinced him his
attention would be better spent elsewhere.
“You
saw me, in a vision about a week ago. I thought Caceri was mocking me to show
me a man who could save me. But I soon realized that it was an actual vision.
There’s an Oracle somewhere out there who has tied us together, my knight. For
good or for ill.”
Tyrus
sighed. He hated Oracles. He hated all of the talk of destiny and greater
purposes. But as the woman dispelled her invisibility he couldn’t deny the face
that had spurred him on in his fight against Asmodeus. She was beautifully
proportioned, even though her head was horned. Her breath smelt of flowers and
rot.
“Mordren,
at your service my knight.”
