The Heart of Hell

by Wayne Barlowe

  She nodded and the demon urged his bul-ata forward. Boudica could hear the scrabbling sound of his mount’s many feet as they tried to gain purchase on the smooth, hardened lava. And then it was her turn and, knowing her creature would be reluctant, she coaxed her bul-ata forward with a tap of her riding stick to its cranium. With a small trill the creature took its first steps on the inclined lava and, like the beast ahead of her, it took a few moments for it to get used to the relative lack of traction. More than once her creature slid backward and she found herself nearly toppling from its back. To ensure that this never happened, she cinched herself to the ornate saddle with some dangling straps—a makeshift measure but one for which she was grateful.

  Once atop the network of ridges the caravan moved slowly, scrabbling along in single file with two dozen archers filling the gaps between the lumbering beasts. She could not hear them for the rising din of the volcano, but she could see them shouting to one another, even occasionally laughing. Some things, she thought, like the ageless rough banter of soldiers were universal. She remembered her own tribesmen—her Iceni—fierce and empowered by hatred and by her, laughing while they marched on the foreign enemy’s capital. And laughing, too, as they burned it to the ground. She could not help but smile faintly at the recollection.

  The caravan moved steadily upward upon the angry flank of Yalpur Nazh and, as they edged closer to the incandescent pillar of smoke, the roaring winds gained in ferocity, threatening the demons’ already-precarious footing. Scalding ash descended upon them and soon she saw that none of them were conversing. Infrequent command glyphs from Metaphrax were sent backward to indicate changes in course or warn of obstructions. Little else was possible.

  Eventually, even in this difficult terrain, Boudica found the volcano’s mind-dulling din and the monotonous pace and the swaying of the bula-ata beneath her soporific. She gazed with heavy-lidded eyes out across the Wastes, out and back toward Adamantinarx, and sighed. So much time spent there and so little to show for it.

  Her gaze lowered to the strange field of mounds and then she started. What was that? Movement? Or a trick of the heat and wind and falling ash? As she peered into the veiled distance, it appeared that the mounds were disappearing. And, in their place, dark objects were appearing, moving slowly en masse toward them.

  What are they … some kind of predator that hides underground waiting to pounce on hapless prey?

  She tried to shout, to get Metaphrax’s attention, but he was intent upon the path ahead. She wanted to urge her beast forward, to pull up alongside him, but it was impossible—the footing was too tenuous and the path too narrow. Instead, apprehensively, she looked back toward the shapes and her breath caught. They had picked up considerable speed and her eyes widened as she could now see that they were some kind of large creature bearing other, smaller ones upon their flat backs. As they drew closer, just as they began to angle up the lava foothills, she could not see any legs and realized that they were floating, gliding rather than running, over the terrain. And she also understood, in an instant, that the Abyssal riders were Salamandrine men. They had lain in wait, buried within the fleshy mounds!

  The first wave of Salamandrines crashed into the rear of the caravan before the rearguard demons could react. Boudica craned in her saddle and saw the archers flaming up their ialpirg projectiles for their bows, but the narrow procession made it difficult for them to see around the lumbering and panicking bul-ata. The Salamandrines carried long swords and thick-hafted lances, which they wielded with both hands, guiding their hissing mounts solely with their legs. Boudica could see the expertise with which they rode, the deftness and precision with which they slaughtered the demons, and a sense of nervous admiration gripped her. With each gliding pass, the attackers sent one or two of the heavy, screaming bul-ata toppling, their riders thrown into the deep troughs of the lava hills. Some of the Salamandrines with lethal thoroughness plunged after them, only to arise moments later with bloodied and ash-covered lances.

  Later, upon reflection, it had seemed to Boudica that it took quite some time before the archers had reacted and the first ialpirg had risen into the air. In reality, the archers were an elite unit and highly trained and she was sure it could not have been more than a few short moments. Hundreds of the fiery conjured arrows rose in an incandescent wave, but few were seen to reach their targets. The driving ash pellets, the immense updrafts, and the equally strong blasts from the Salamandrines’ mounts’ exhalation-siphons caused the missiles to fly erratically away like embers on the winds.

  One by one, Boudica saw the bul-ata behind her topple, and each one that fell underscored the diminishing likelihood of bringing home the lost Library. The success of her personal quest was slipping away as well. The possibility of her discovering the whereabouts of her daughters was diminishing before her eyes. Dread rose up in her throat like bile. With each cohort of archers slain, it became apparent to her that it was only a matter of time before she was set upon. She was doomed to fall, along with her beast, into the deep ravine, to fall victim to a lance thrust followed by probable dismemberment. And there she would lie, for all eternity, a quivering, disassembled pile of body parts unable to move and lost to all. The thought terrified her. Twisting in her saddle to face the back of the caravan, she unsheathed her sword, determined to strike at least one blow before succumbing.

  A brilliant flash of red light from behind her, from the head of the procession, made Boudica spin around. Metaphrax Argastos had arisen. Ascending from his saddle on fiery wings, he held above his head a terrible lance, its head coruscating with writhing and hungry symbols. His conjured ribbons of luminous glyphs had grown in size and agitation and now moved sinuously, protectively, around his already-armored form as he rushed toward the attackers.

  His audacity, undoubtedly as he had hoped, drew them away from the caravan. The threat he represented was clear, potent, and undeniable and the gathering Salamandrines wheeled their floating mounts, charging the flying demon with a startlingly shrill war cry.

  Squinting through the maelstrom of ash and embers, Boudica lost count of the Salamandrines somewhere after thirty—the swarming melee and Metaphrax’s intermittent pulses of dazzling light made a more accurate count impossible. She was amazed at the demon’s fearlessness and courage and his ability to fend off so many attackers drew her profound admiration.

  At first, the Salamandrines appeared hesitant—some broke off to attack the wingless Styjimar—but most steeled themselves to address the Demon Minor. The fury of Metaphrax’s attacks seemed unstoppable and Boudica saw five of the warriors toppled from their mounts cleft by the burning lance. But it was not long before the warriors understood his rhythm, the timing of his swings, and the reach of his lance. Deftly, they darted in, jabbing up at him with their own lances, missing more often than not, but connecting with enough frequency to slow him down.

  One blow caught Metaphrax just between his glyph ribbons and his actual armor, causing one of his phalerae to glow. It looked like nothing to Boudica, but when the Salamandrine pulled his lance away she saw the demon pause, drop his arm for an instant. It was enough.

  Upon the signal of a horn, four masked warriors converged beneath him, chattering loudly to one another. As they skimmed past her, Boudica could see them seating their lances and pulling heavy, weighted nets from behind their saddles. They were, it seemed, laughing. This was sport to them, not the deadly struggle that she would have thought of it.

  For Metaphrax, bellowing with each sliding thrust of his lance, it was no sport. The demon still moved lightly, his wings constantly changing up their beats to dodge and parry the many lances that tried to find their way through his guard. Time and numbers were not on his side and Boudica saw more Salamandrine lance heads thrusting upward, jabbing closer and closer to his body. Even a warrior demon had his limits and, while many attackers were sent to their death, the number grew fewer and fewer as the fight wore on.

  Finally, through the aerial mele
e, the four net bearers drew close enough to let fly their spinning nets and each, expertly launched, tangled around the shoulders and wings of Metaphrax. The weights bore him downward until he set down on the smooth hillside, for a moment a vision of grace and sadness. And then the Salamandrines set upon him and that vision turned to one of ugliness.

  Pummeling the demon into submission with the hafts of their lances, the warriors managed eventually to tie the demon into the nets so that any movement, any chance of escape, was impossible. Despite this, the fire in his eyes never dimmed and he silently glared at them, until their laughter faded away.

  Boudica’s face was grim. Metaphrax had treated her well, with dignity and respect. And whether it was because Eligor had ordered it or it was his own intention, she had grown to respect his stoic warrior’s way back. This was not how she would have hoped the demon would have met his end.

  As she watched his plight, the Salamandrine in command rode up alongside her bul-ata. His unmasked face, beaked and scarred and pallid, seemed filled with hatred and there was a coldness in his four white eyes that nearly made her shudder. Men of Wrath. She understood that more now than ever.

  A terrible shout brought Boudica’s attention back to Styjimar. He had been unseated from his saddle and, now with Metaphrax no longer a threat, more of the wild Salamandrines fell upon him with their lances and swords. Two particularly bold warriors dismounted to better their blows and this proved to be their undoing. For one brief moment she saw the demon disembowel one and split the skull of the other with his sword only for his sword arm to be chopped off at nearly the same instant. It took little time for the killing blow to fall—a simple but effective decapitation—and she saw a dark cloud of ash suddenly blossom where he had lain.

  Around her, the remaining archers, thrown into disarray by the falling beasts and the lack of leadership, were being ruthlessly and systematically destroyed, the balance of the engagement having gone the Salamandrines’ way with the fall of Metaphrax. The warriors’ high spirits had returned now that the demon commander had been subdued and their high-pitched laughter punctuated many of the archers’ demises. In all, it was the most grotesque display of battlefield behavior that Boudica had ever encountered, and she had returned from many a blood-soaked field.

  The Salamandrine riding alongside her—his many necklaces and ornaments and demons’ phalerae clearly bespoke an elevated rank—seemed to be enjoying the brutal spectacle, shaking his raised lance and screeching with every archer destroyed. Before she could react, he turned to her, croaked a command to his mount, and leaped lithely from his gliding steed onto the broad back of the bul-ata just behind Boudica. He snatched her sword from her hand and, with a short clacking laugh, slid it into his own belt. She glared at her huge captor, a quiet defiance that garnered her a sharp backhanded slap across her face. She turned away, stunned and trembling with anger.

  It was not long before the Men of Wrath had their victory on the flanks of Yalpur Nazh. The Salamandrines, their lances a bristling wall impenetrable to any who might think to escape, encircled the few remaining archers who had not been immediately destroyed. These dropped their weapons and stood defiantly, grim faced. And they did not have long to wait. The Salamandrines set upon them with knives and cleavers and Boudica watched, her face grim, as the riders, brutally careful not to inflict any fatal wounds that might deprive them of their prizes, proceeded to carve away the bony armor and skins of their screaming victims. Once freed of their hides, the writhing and screaming demons were spitted on lances so as not to be turned to ash and cast bodily into the lava of an adjacent pit.

  With two Salamandrine hands holding his head still, Metaphrax was made to watch as well. His fate, Boudica knew, would be no less harsh and, she could see from his set expression, he clearly knew this as well.

  Once the last of his soldiers was dispatched, the Demon Minor was brought to his feet. He stood a head taller than his captors and he seemed to make a point of this by standing as straight as possible, defiant and proud. Metaphrax Argastos would leave this terrible world in a way befitting his lineage and rank.

  The Salamandrine leader strode purposefully up to the demon and unceremoniously spat in his face.

  It was the beginning of Metaphrax’s end. Boudica had seen many a chieftain and many a haughty Roman meet their end in similar ways. Her own warriors, men and women alike, had killed their prisoners in ways that still troubled her and she, too, had executed the more important enemies without so much as a second thought. When the Salamandrines began their slow execution of the demon she could not help but shudder.

  Knowing full well that any deep cut or limb removal might result in the sudden and total destruction of the demon, they began to carve away at him in a way that she saw would last for hours. They began by taking squared-tipped blades and prying away his most valuable possessions—the hard-won phalerae that were lying in thin sheets across his breast and each of which bore silent testimony to his many one-on-one victories with higher demons. They did not come free of Metaphrax’s chest easily and, with each one painfully removed, Boudica could hear a shrill hiss and see the Demon Minor’s body stiffen. These now-glowing disks they held aloft, cawing shrilly, for all to see and the Salamandrines rejoiced, shrieking as if each one was a victory of their own. A dozen times the knives found a disk and twisted it loose and a dozen times she saw the demon weaken by degrees. But he never faltered and she could not help but feel pity and admiration for him.

  The leader of the Salamandrines looked toward Boudica and gestured to her. Sullenly, she dropped to the ground, still a bit dazed. A few warriors surrounded her and dragged her before the demon. Boudica looked up at him and saw nothing in his expression.

  The Salamandrine pulled Boudica’s new sword from his belt and handed it hilt-first to her. And she suddenly understood what they expected of her. For an eternity the Demons had been enemies to both souls and Salamandrines alike and in that moment she knew they would do her no harm. But, too, she realized there was no avoiding what must come next. This was to be the price of her freedom.

  Boudica looked down at the straight, narrow sword in her hand. Once, so long ago that it now felt like a dream, she had had little else in her hand but a sword. Now it seemed so odd that here in Hell she should be reunited with the very instrument that had put her in this place. She hefted it and its weight seemed right, familiar. Its blade reflected the towering fire above her and for a moment it, too, seemed to be made of fire. Was it an omen of things to come?

  Metaphrax was roughly pushed to his knees.

  Boudica drew back a step, her breath short and shallow. She did not want this. Despite all of the indignities suffered at the hands of the demons, she did not feel that this demon deserved her retribution. She looked into his vacant, silvered eyes and saw only herself.

  The Salamandrines, growing restless, turned first to her and then back to their leader. With an impatient hand gesture he spoke and jerked his head toward the demon. His message was obvious.

  She looked at Metaphrax and the sword in her hand. The roaring fire, the burning embers, the intensity of the Salamandrines’ gaze all seemed to fade away. She stepped forward, and before she could stop him Metaphrax grasped the point of her sword and raised it to the deep and vulnerable cavity in his chest where his angelic heart had once been. Time itself seemed to stop.

  “You must do this, Boudica. Not for me,” Metaphrax said, the light back in his eyes. “But for your daughters.”

  She hesitated, but suddenly she could feel him pulling the blade, inch by inch, into his chest. Knowing that the Salamandrines would not be satisfied with anything but the most purposeful gesture, she silently uttered the words “I am sorry,” and thrust the full yard of metal into him.

  Metaphrax erupted into a black cloud and then he was gone, only his dark disk remaining in the ash.

  Boudica, covered from head to toe in dark ash, turned slowly back to her captors and offered the sword, hilt-first, to the
m. Instead of accepting it, one of the Salamandrines knelt and scooped up a handful of Metaphrax’s ash and, unfastening a skin bladder, poured a small amount of dark liquid into the ash. With one finger he mixed it, and then dipped his sharp-nailed finger into the black paste.

  He reached out and gently grasped Boudica’s arm and wiped it clean. Then, without any warning, he began to incise a pattern into her skin, his nail digging into her flesh. The ash mixture, she knew, would leave a raised scar. Had she been truly alive, a creature of her old world, she would undoubtedly have cried out, but her existence in Hell had inured her to pain. When he was finished he spat on her arm, wiped away the blood and ash, and stood up.

  She looked at her arm and was surprised by the flowing delicacy of the volute form. The stinging would fade, but this symbol of her first demon destroyed would be there forever.

  8

  PYGON AZ

  Somehow, Adramalik knew this trip to the palace—by his count the fifteenth—would prove fruitful. Every journey he had taken to be introduced to the new Lord of Pygon Az had ended with him being left unfulfilled and frustrated. He never made entry into the Audience Chamber, never set eyes upon the throne or its occupant. Each invitation, brought by a scuffling emissary of the Bearer of the Knife, was sealed with a glyph and the demon had ceased opening them after the tenth. Instead, he handed the folded skins to the two dozen headless souls who shared his miserable domicile and watched them fight over the skins as if they could actually read them. At first he laughed when he saw them clawing and tussling, but with the third offering he merely turned away and relished his momentary privacy.

  This trip to the palace proper was identical to all the preceding. Exiting the domicile, the emissary and he briskly walked the three hundred paces to the imposing palace gate, passing the forty-seven statues of Lucifuge’s ministers, the ice-encrusted heads of which lay at their pedestals’ bases. The gate, a portal three times the height of the average demon, was draped in sword-sharp icicles nearly half that length. Once the pair passed through the gate, Adramalik focused, as he always did, upon the main residence and palace. It was nothing like his memories of the place. The extravagances of Lucifuge’s fantasies lay in broken heaps under ice many feet thick. And rising above was an austerely simplified edifice that rankled Adramalik with its defacement. Who could have so callously scraped this palace clean of its ornaments, leaving them in miserable piles where they fell?