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Chapter 12: Reckoning

Gorgon stared down at the two spikes. They were small black things and yet they were what killed him. He hadn’t expected it. Not at all. The arch demon, gluttonous, but a tried and true battle commander, had never expected it to end this way.

The spikes pulled back out of him. The holes they left behind fountained out a green ichor which bled all over Gorgon’s throne.

It didn’t hurt. The shock of it all had been too much for pain to register, but the feeling of dying had been there and Gorgon knew it. He remembered the first time he had died. He had been someone of importance once and had loved to eat just as he had now. Someone had gotten jealous and murdered him with poison. The feeling he had when he had died then was the same now and Gorgon knew that there was no way around it and so, he merely looked up at the source of his demise.

Athnarak smiled at Gorgon. It was a strange look to see it smile, the lips peeled back past the edges of its beak, revealing its rows of needle like teeth. The gangly and wholly unnatural creature that had been a creation by Malus would never have betrayed its true master and now that Gorgon thought about it, it was obvious. All of Malus’ closest minions were loyal out of respect, not fear. That kind of loyalty was not betrayed. Why did Gorgon believe him?

Athnarak had come to Gorgon with the promise that he would lead him and his army to Malus. All Athnarak had asked was for a position as one of Gorgon’s chief lieutenants. It had been so obviously a lie and yet, Gorgon had believed him. It had been his insatiable desire to see Malus dead for betraying him. It had blinded him and now he was paying the price.

Gorgon slumped over and with his job done, Athnarak turned to watch the carnage. It had been easy. His master, Malus, was now more powerful than ever in the body of the young human, Andrew and with that power, he had twisted the mind of Gorgon to that of a feeble being that was easy to manipulate.

Athnarak had led Gorgon and his armies, numbering nearly a hundred thousand strong of demons of varying size and strength, into the Castilian Trenches. At the end of the vast network of canyons, some nearly a mile deep, was Malus’ new stronghold where he prepped his spell. There was no need to lie about Malus’ whereabouts and with that, Gorgon had charged into the trenches with his army where a trap laid in waiting.

The trap had sprung marvelously. Boulders came crashing down throughout the canyon, segmenting the army into smaller, more manageable bits. At the front of the column, where Gorgon had positioned his strongest, Malus deployed his newly acquired Sacrans.

The Sacrans were no longer human. Taken from their homes and drug into the pits of hell, their minds were tormented for mere moments, but to them it was decades. They lost their minds and ability to resist the demonic energies of Hell, transforming them into twisted creatures that walked like humans and even acted like humans, but were far from it. Their skin was red and oily, hair black and matted, eyes glowed yellow and teeth broken and crooked. The Sacrans still wore their proud armor and marched in the same disciplined manner to which all Sacrans, men and women, had been taught. It was the most disciplined demon army in existence and Malus used them to great effect.

Repeating ballista fired from the top of the canyon walls, sending great spears that impaled two or three at a time. Archers sent down volleys of arrows bathed in tar and flames while a column of armored legionnaires marched on the panicking demons. They threw two volleys of javelins before charging and committing to the slaughter with such a precision that one would think they were still their former human selves.

In some sections of the canyon, more legionnaires slaughtered Gorgon’s demons. In others, Malus’ own demons, led by Baleric swarmed in and took advantage of the chaos. Where larger and more dangerous demons were trapped, smaller, fetid demons that resembled beetles, crept about and exploded, sending cascading arcs of vile acid. The acid ate away at the ankles of the largest and most dangerous demons where then, fearsome pit demons, armed with halberds and crooked great swords swarmed from hidden passages in the walls of the canyon. It was hardly a battle and soon, another one of Malus’ enemies were gone.

About half of Gorgon’s army survived the initial slaughter and that was when Malus came and revealed himself to them.

Malus had changed himself. He did not look anything like his former self or of his host, Anthony. He took on a form to match the new power of youth he felt. His body bulged with muscles that would have put Baleric to shame. His feet were of cloven hooves, black and sat at the bottom of reversed jointed legs. His face was more human than twisted demon and had black eyes that gave off a glowing mist. From his head, two great curling horns sprouted unnaturally and bloody, stretching his silvery skin at the base. He wore a set of black robes over black armor, showing that he did not abandon his scholarly habits, but did not shy from battle either.

“Let the killing stop,” Malus said to all in the canyon. His voice carried to all of them as if he were just a few feet away. He rose his arms up. “Are we all not children of Hell and ultimately playthings of the great lord Satan? And should siblings not fight amongst each other for family is what matters.”

Many of the demons looked inward in confusion. The notion of family was new to most of them and barely echoed in the haunted minds of the twisted Sacrans. Malus continued anyways.

“We are all brothers in a struggle that goes back well beyond any of our years,” Malus lifted a hand, palm to the sky. A black shroud appeared and slowly took the generic shape of an angel. “We grow and light rises to meet us always. Yet, they are united and we are shattered.” The angel reared up with a sword and slammed down on a demon that had jumped to attack it. Malus then closed his hand, dispersing the image.

All the fight by had stopped now. All were looking at him. With Gorgon dead, Malus was the only arch demon left and naturally drew the attention of all the lesser demons. They rallied to power with the hope of feeding off the scraps that fell from their master’s hands. It was their nature for a demon was naturally meek, timid, but insatiably greedy and hateful. That’s what drove them to fight amongst each other, but now only Malus remained and he had a new target for them.

“Now, we no longer need to fight,” Malus said to them as if they were children. They might as well be. “I am here to guide you. You are here, looking for guidance. We have a true enemy and they sit on their high perches and judge us. They oppress us and move to stop us. We are now able to focus on heaven and the angels there. You will follow me and obey me for you have no other option.”

There was no option. Those that were smart enough to resist Malus’ will were smart enough to obey him anyways. Any that showed hesitation were slaughtered and fed to the others. It was not trouble because when it was all done, Malus had over two hundred thousand under his command, more than any army ever amassed with exception of the vermin and they were hardly a threat ever since their empire had been destroyed.

Shortly after his great victory over Gorgon, Malus went back to his fortress. It wasn’t as big as the first, but just as defendable. It had been an ancient human fort. One of the first that the Sacrans had built when fighting the vermin and everyone knew just how reliable Sacran forts were. The vermin has crashed against its walls and died in droves. Malus expected the same of anything that came at him.

There, in his study, Malus went over his materials. It was a wide range of old artifacts and Malus could feel each of the items faint strings traveling through the world and back to Earth where they belong. Such things were not supposed to travel between the worlds and so there was a tug and it was this string and tug that Malus used to open his portal and yet there was a problem. The items were mundane, the strings frail. He had assumed any item would work, but he had been wrong. What he had would be enough for the base work. He needed something more solid than mere artifacts, he needed a possession and Malus already had an idea.

It had been a brief flare that had rocked the minds of every angel. A cry of desperate help so great that it couldn’t be ignored. The cry had no words to it, but had been an expression of such great anguish and torment that those closest to its original source had fallen, crippled by the swell of emotions that might as well have been their own at that point. Those far away from it, still frozen mid activity, could feel out the cry and recognize it as another angel. Those that were old enough, recognized it. Vessius.

Hermès had been very far away at the time of the cry and he knew it to be his old friend Vessius. They had been close, having nurtured the same people on Earth. While Hermès had let go of his attachment to his worshippers, he did not hold any hard feelings towards Vessius when he had broken the great taboo and brought people across worlds. There had actually been a sense of jealousy because every angel wanted to be with their followers. They were like children to them and yet none had ever been brave or foolish enough to even try to bring them to a new world. Vessius, though banished and forsaken by heaven, was an inspiration of individuality. So, when Hermès felt his old friend send out a cry for help, he had gone immediately.

Hermès was the fastest of the angels. When he had learned that the fastest planet in Jason’s world had been named after him, he had taken it as a great honor and he proved that it was a worthy honor at that.

No matter the distance, Hermès was always first to anywhere. His wings could carry him farther and faster than any other angel and he pushed himself hard to bring himself to the location of where he felt Vessius.

The Sacrans had believed that Vessius had been killed. Angels didn’t leave behind bodies when they died. Their souls left and went to a realm unknown to even the oldest and wisest of angels. Instead, they left behind their armor and wings and that was what the Sacrans had found. They had held a ceremony, burying the few dead that were left behind along with the armor of Vessius in a deep tomb that had been built a thousand years prior for this such day. A few angels, human or not, had been allowed to attend out of respect. Hermès had been there, but didn’t believe that Vessius had died. It would have been something he would have felt, something others had felt and they hadn’t. It had been brushed aside as one of Malus’ doings. Hiding his activities by blocking Vessius’ death from reaching the other angels, but Hermès didn’t believe it.

The source of the cry for help was obviously over run with demons. It was an abandoned mine that had once been a major source of silver and gold for a long lost kingdom until it had been destroyed by the greed of the king who fell victim to that of a demon. His people were enslaved and the mine had been overfilled with demons that loved precious metals. They guarded them greedily.

The first few came out to investigate when Hermès landed with a solid thump that would be felt in all the mine tunnels. They were small things with long arms and pale skin, Cave Imps was what most called them. They had no eyes. Instead they used massive bat like ears to hear and clicked with a set of organs that hung at the back of their large, cavernous mouths to hear the echo location. They were too weak to wield pickaxes themselves. Instead, they wandered tunnels, tapping the rocks with long and hard nails, listening for a particular frequency that only their favorite materials made. They would then spend decades simply sitting in place and listening to that single noise.

It was not uncommon to venture into a cave and hear them, tapping away deep in the bowels of the earth and therefore were normally easy to avoid. They were mostly docile, only becoming violent in the presence of their favorite material and so it was often discouraged to go into caves with valuables to avoid drawing in Cave Imps. These imps, however, had their orders from Malus and immediately attacked.

It was easy to dispatch the feeble demons with a few thrusts of his spear. They fell away from him, screaming and holding where they had been pierced by the angelic spear. It burned them. The point of the penetration sizzled and the skin turned red, dry and flaky, slowly creeping across their bodies until their entire being was enveloped by it. Then, once their struggles ceased, the wind blew their ashes away. It took effort for an angel to kill this way, channeling his powers, but Hermès was out to find his friend and punish those that dared stand in the way.

The wailings of the cave imps drew more out of the mines in great numbers. This cave was still full of gold and silver and therefore was completely filled with imps.

They swarmed out like a fog from the mouth of the mines, charging at the lone angel with no fear for Malus would kill them in worse ways than a holy spear if they did not fight.

Hermès let his shield fade away and instead drew a short stabbing sword with his off hand while still wielding his spear.

“Come at me you cretins,” Hermès said and smiled.

He thrust out with the spear, not only impaling three imps in one attack, but the tip of the spear shot out a bolt of holy light that speared through an addition four. They all fell away, slowly drying into ashen husks.

Killing was not something angels or Heaven was known for. They had always taught peace and compassion, but it was by no means something that was shied away from. Hermès wasn’t the most adept at it, Gabriel was better, but he could kill these imps in droves without issue.

Hermès spun around quickly, holding out his blade at arms length. The tip disemboweled everything in a wide arc in front of the angel and the wave of holy light that cascaded from the weapon cut down just as many as well.

It was clock work. The imps came at him and then died with no regard to their safety or with any sense of tactics. They merely hoped to overwhelm Hermès through pure numbers. It was foolish and soon Hermès stood in a small valley of ash. His normally white tunic under his very Greek inspired armor, was now grey and black, but they were all dead. No more came out to challenge Hermès, but that merely meant the stupid ones were dead already. There would be more inside, guarding Vessius. Malus wouldn’t leave such a prize under the care of imps.

Inside, Hermès encountered a wider variety of demons from vicious dog like creatures that spat toxic bile to the renowned pit demons who specialized in swords and killing with flare. He even encountered a grue which had nearly taken him.

Hermès had been walking slowly under the light of his halo when he felt a certain uneasiness that went with being watched. He was being watched, of course. Demons would occasionally come at him when they thought he wasn’t looking, but this was different. It was had an air of death to it and before Hermès even saw it, his halo vanished. Very little could rip a halo from an angel and the darkness of a grue was one of them.

He was enveloped by a darkness so thick that he swore he could feel it swirl between his fingers and around his body as he brought up his weapons to defend himself.

A pitter patter of footsteps to Hermès left. He swung at it and missed, the blade cleaving through what felt like flesh, but was nothing. The sword came away clean. His miss was met by a throating chittering noise like a cricket, if a cricket was made of meat and not carapace. It chilled the angel.

A grue was beast of legend. Not even known if it was a demon or not. Not even truly accepted as real for it was something no one ever saw. Some retold tales of watching friends venture into the dark places of the earth to never return, only smatterings of blood and clothes being left behind. No expedition ever found anything, but a few did vanish in places just like where Hermès was and so the legend of the grue was made to stop foolhardy adventures from ever leaving without a solid source of light and yet, it appeared that the grue could snatch that light away just as it had done with Hermes’ halo.

The chittering grew louder and louder, seemingly coming from all directions and then it stopped a split second before Hermès felt a knife, a claw, something sharp slide across the meat of his lower back.

Hermès yelped in pain and twisted around, swinging both blade and spear around. There was a faint glow where there should have been a brilliant light of holiness to smite the grue. There was, however, a disapproving growl that distanced itself from the glow. The grue existed only in darkness, take it away and it could not exist anymore.

Hermès breathed out a low breath and focused. The glow had been proof that the grue’s unnatural darkness was not impenetrable. If he could just focus and concentrate, he’d be able to break through and light the place up again.

The chittering came back again, echoed only by the sound of footsteps. It was closing in and Hermès knew that he could not forcibly stop the attack that was surely coming in to finish him off.

Focusing more and more, Hermès built up his energies until the last moment. He opened his eyes and let it all out the moment before he was sure that he would die. Light exploded.

What Hermès saw was indescribable. He saw the grue and yet the moment it had faded away, eaten by the light, he forgot what he saw and was left with the feeling of deep revulsion and that of waking from a horrible nightmare. He soon found himself picking himself up from the ground, having fainted for a split moment from the horror of the forgotten sight. Now, in front of him was a pile of rotted meat, entrails and bones of imps and demons, the prey the grue had killed and eaten. Nothing of the grue itself remained. That made Hermès sure that the grue was simply a terrible creature of the world, not of hell and it scared him that such a thing could exist on its own.

After catching his breath and dressing his wound, Hermès continued on into the mines. After the grue, there was nothing that he couldn’t handle and he got the sense that this was too easy. Any angel would have been able to get through the demons. The grue had simply been a natural occurrence. Yet, Hermès pushed onwards. He could feel another presence and slight waves of pain ripples through the air, speeding Hermès’ steps.

Miles within the mine was where Vessius was. He was strung up, crucified to a cross that was suspended over a mine shaft that went down so far that it made Hermès think that he’d find hell at the bottom. On a normal day, the usually curious angel would have taken a gander, but not today, his friend needed him.

Vessius was barely alive. His body was bloody and covered in deep gashes. Several fingers and toes were missing. A chunk was bitten out of his calf where a black mass was now growing and his eyes were crusted shut by a slime that didn’t seem natural in appearance or smell. Worst of all, fake wings of cow ribs were stitched to his back, the rotted meat smelled and the wound was festering.

Hermès flew up to Vessius and cupped his friend’s face. “What did they do to you?” He was about to start taking him down when Vessius woke up.

His eyes were bloodshot and diluted, but there was clarity. “I’m so sorry,” Vessius gasped and then cried. “So sorry. You shouldn’t have come.”

Hermès cocked an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I come.”

Vessius coughed. A black bile came up to his lips. “He knew that you’d be the one to come. Malus knew. This was a trap.”

As if the words were the key, Vessius jerked back, his chin striking Hermès across the cheek as he did.

Hermès back up and watched in horror as his friend was twisted by some internal force and turned into something else.

Skin stretched and began to crawl over the cow ribs. It tore and bled, but Vessius developer new wings of skin. His arms cracked and groaned as they distended and claws grew from the tips of his fingers. His skin slowly changed from a fair tan to a deepening red as if all the blood vessels just under the skin had ruptured. His face grew longer and a beak, made of bone sliced through the lips. His eyes blackened over and developed singular spots of yellow for pupils and before those eyes were washed over with hate and torment, Vessius spoke once more in a distorted, but still sincere voice. “Forgive me.”