The Heart of Hell

by Wayne Barlowe

When they reached the huge arch, he dropped to his hands and knees, but it was an almost involuntary act as he saw laid out before him the vast tableau of Lord Abaddon and his attendant court.

  The ancient cavern, eerily illuminated by the glowing growths on the rocks, was easily as vast as the Prince’s Rotunda had been, a space that should have defied the physical supports it would need to keep it from collapsing. As no supports were visible, the enormity of the amphitheater was staggering, but Adramalik had little time to consider issues of fantastic architecture.

  Recumbent in a lake of trembling quicksilver was Abaddon. The god was gigantic, nearly the size of Semjaza the Watcher, and he was unlike any thing or being that Adramalik had ever seen in Hell. He had a head. That much was apparent, but even that was not like any head he had encountered before. It was impossible to tell which direction it was looking, which were its features, and which were simply strange ornaments projecting from its round skull. Surrounding it was a dark and wavering nimbus, a huge version of the Faraii creature’s, that seemed to pull the light in from all around it.

  The rest of the god’s partially submerged body was equally puzzling. Angular limbs disappeared beneath the rippling liquid metal to reappear in unexpected places, attaching themselves to the torso in ways that Adramalik had trouble understanding. Perhaps, he concluded, this is because it is hidden. Perhaps if it rose up.…, but the thought of this enormous, unfathomable being standing before him actually frightened him in a way nothing had ever done before. While the Fly had been a unique and undeniably disturbing figure he, at least, had attempted to be something recognizable while in the presence of his court.

  As hard as it was to take his eyes from the abstraction that was Abaddon, the surroundings were nearly as bizarre. It was pure chaos. Flocks of Abyssals swooped and careered and rocketed through the air, screeching as they darted between the stalactites. Dotting the quicksilver lake were small islands of countless discarded spirit-shells, some of these floating rafts surmounted by chanting demonic Conjurers, the source of the low voices he had heard from far back in the caverns.

  Adramalik watched them as some pounded on drums and intoned their throaty phrases while others used long wedges to pry open the dead armored demons that were constantly being pushed into the lake by equally malformed helpers. The naked Conjurers, each one twisted into a wildly unique, multi-limbed form, had clearly been imbued with some kind of Art Transfigurative. Strange glyphs flew as thickly as the incantations allowed and from each cracked and shriveled demon a new creature was pulled, covered in the black tar of its rebirth. Even as the Conjurers were casting away the remains of the demons—the so-called spirit-shells—the new creatures gaped their distended jaws wide, stretched unsteadily, and then leaped into the quicksilver pool to swim to shore. By the time they had managed to make land they had grown large and strong and were cleansed of their black slime. Another unnatural feat of transformation! A constant, chittering stream of them faded into the darkness to join their brethren somewhere in the icy bowels of the caves.

  The Faraii creature was different. Perhaps he had been designed with the simple purpose of speaking to him. Or, more likely, he was a higher form, created to lead the masses of these transformed demons. He lacked the robust jaws that seemed so obviously designed to rend and tear.

  Adramalik was convinced that Abaddon had gifted his Conjurers with some small portion of his own vast power, an Art well beyond anything the demon had ever heard spoken of. It did not seem to matter in what way a demon was destroyed on the battlefield. Drawn here by Abaddon they were all intact, all fodder for transfiguration. This being was something to not trifle with. He shook his head slowly, partly out of admiration, partly out of fearful respect, partly out of sheer incomprehension. After the Fall the demons’ Arts had flourished and grown powerful. But deep inside he knew they could not compete with the primal power of resurrection itself.

  Faraii stood back, watching the awestruck demon as he took in all of the sights. A smile, not unlike his old, grim smile, crossed his face.

  “The only true god in Hell.”

  And Adramalik, on hands and knees, found himself unable to contradict the creature.

  “We must make our way down to that ledge. And await your audience.”

  “My audience?”

  “I told you. He was waiting for you. You did not think I brought you here to simply gaze upon his majesty, did you?”

  Fear rose up in Adramalik’s chest. Unaccustomed fear. Why does this thing wait for me? What could I possibly do for him that he could not have done by any number of other means?

  Adramalik moved forward, down toward the ledge, perhaps more slowly than was physically necessary. Each crawling step brought him closer to the god, closer to his unthinkable questions being answered. And, as he descended, edging past moaning, incense-shrouded Conjurers in blind-eyed, gyrating trances and through low, crackling hummocks of stinking spirit-shells, the last shreds of his former confidence vanished entirely and he realized that he was … nothing.

  He had, indeed, fallen further still since his fall.

  The creature that had been Faraii moved easily through the chanting demon-things and the detritus, trotting ahead until, reaching the ledge, it turned and watched Adramalik approach.

  The demon slipped on the ice and bits of shell and went down on an elbow. A multi-armed Conjurer reached down and helped him back up on all fours. And Adramalik marveled at how little kinship he felt for the creature, how he could hardly see the demon in it. He had no desire to thank it, to address it at all. Without a word, he simply continued creeping forward until he was at Faraii’s cloven feet.

  He spun slowly until he was facing Abaddon and sucked in his breath. Closer to the god his enormity was even greater. His musty scent somehow penetrated the foul stink of the Abyssal birthing ground, permeating the air, filling Adramalik’s lungs. Age. Vast age. He sensed it even without the pungent odor.

  The god sat up to regard the demon. Quicksilver slithered from him in long, wobbly worms that seamlessly blended into the lake. Abaddon’s shadow-shrouded head bowed, but even with this orientation, Adramalik was just as challenged to discern any recognizable features.

  There was no voice and yet the demon heard it. Over the flapping and screeching of the Abyssals, the chanting of the shamans, the crackling of the shells, over it all Adramalik heard Abaddon’s brittle words.

  “You are finally here, Adramalik. After all these millennia.”

  Adramalik nodded, speechless. How could this be? How could he be awaited by this being?

  “This world, as you know it, this world is nearly at an end. Your kind have reigned here far too long and wrought changes upon the landscape that I find intolerable. I will see that dominion end. And, in its place, I will give back to my children their world as they knew it before you and your degraded race arrived.”

  Abaddon shifted slightly and the heavy ripples in the lake caused the small rafts and their occupants to bob briefly.

  “You demons have claimed this world as your own, as if it were your right to colonize it. It was mine, mine and others’ before you and so shall it be again. I am nearly ready to take it back. I need only a Summoning … a final sacrifice … to set about the changes. And, that, Adramalik, is why I waited so very long for you.”

  Another shift and the silver waves lapped thickly at the ledge.

  Adramalik’s mind raced. Were all his dark heroics, his darker schemes, his fealty to the Fly and loyalty to his brother Knights, was his entire existence in the Above and Hell, coming down to this? To becoming a simple, miserable sacrifice?

  With all the hardships he had experienced descending into these vast caverns, he knew he could never escape. Even if he could manage to flee from this Faraii creature—and that seemed unlikely—he would surely be lost in the labyrinth of tunnels. And, worse yet, found.

  He would have to argue for his life.

  Nonetheless, Adramalik held his tongue. He needed to kno
w more and remembered Faraii’s warning about addressing Abaddon directly.

  “Your instinct for self-preservation is remarkable, Adramalik. And unnecessary here.” The god let that sink in. Nothing could be hidden from him. “A long time ago, demon, you craved a life of ease and plenty far away from Dis. You held high position in the spurious court of a false Prince who played at ruling Hell.” Abaddon paused again and Adramalik could feel the hatred envelop him. The darkness that encircled the god’s head roiled and agitated and the demon saw the briefest flickering of red lightning.

  How could this thing have known my innermost yearnings? I shared them with no one.

  “I knew your thoughts then, Adramalik, as I know them now because I am not a thing. I am Hell. I have been here since before the Salamandrines, living in this darkened realm, this second world beneath what you know. I watched you and your kind Fall. But I had no host to stop it. Now, with the constant slaughtering of one another that you demons seem to delight in, you have provided me with the materials for your own undoing. The more your kind wages war the larger my army becomes. Your own dead and destroyed are the very foundation of my Horde. My Abaddim.”

  A flock of the circling Abyssals landed on the god, covering what served as shoulders in red-glowing, folded wings. Abaddon took no notice.

  “You are not to be sacrificed as you fear. To the contrary. I will give you what you have craved … that life of indulgence and comfort.… I will anoint you the new Prince of Hell. But it will come at a price. You will be alone to enjoy it. And you will have to bring me the creature that calls himself Ai Apaec. It is his demise that will bring me forth.”

  “And what of the world above?” Adramalik spoke out loud.

  Faraii took a step toward him.

  Abaddon lifted an appendage, staying the creature.

  “It will change again to what it once was and my scions, my brood … my Abaddim … will flourish and repopulate it. That is my wish.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because of your power and your cunning and your instinct for self-preservation. Even as that thing you called a Prince was fighting to save himself, you were gauging how to stay alive. I had to compel you to leave. That Watcher was too potent to be fought, too powerful and wild. He needed to be released, to turn the tide. To bring you here.”

  “You released him?”

  “I broke the ground beneath the great fortress and his chains fell away.”

  Adramalik, awed, humbled, pressed his forehead to the frozen ground.

  “I will do as you require.”

  * * *

  The Faraii creature left him in a tunnel near the base of the Pit, just before the winds could be felt. No words passed between them, but a connection had been forged. After all, Adramalik reasoned, Faraii was no stranger, and while this bizarre version of him was both unexpected and horrific, it was certainly an improvement over the mindless Husk he once had known. Perhaps there was something of the old demon left in that misshapen, four-legged thing.

  Alone, the demon made his way to the chimney’s base. Wings spread and catching the terrific updraft, Adramalik rose into the frigid air with a mixture of relief, exhilaration, and purpose. The dark, ragged mouth of the Pit spat him forth, falling away beneath him as he tried to combat the wild winds above it. But, ultimately, his wings betrayed him and he plunged back to land heavily upon the ice. He read no portents in that small fall.

  15

  THE WASTES

  Ardat and Lilith sat on a rocky promontory watching a small herd of Abyssals pulling up a crimson patch of arterial growths to get at the more tender vessels belowground. Each creature was adorned with floating antler-like growths that hovered above their heads and backs and a pattern of red-orange spots that glowed brilliantly in the semi-gloom. They were quite attractive, Lilith thought. She was sure that the vessel fields had not been present before the arrival of the Fallen—she remembered that distant past with clarity—and marveled that the Abyssals had adapted to carving away the layers of tissue that had come with the descent of the demons and souls. The corruption of the native land that had occurred since their ancient arrival had been thorough and completely invasive. She somehow felt guilty for that, as if her association with the demons made her equally culpable, but she knew better than that. It was their doing.

  As the pair watched, the six acolytes silently, stealthily moved in behind the herd, positioning themselves behind rocks for the imminent ambush. Liimah, sharp as ever, was the leader and with crisp hand signals she directed the others to wait and be patient. The Abyssals were skittish and even the two distant Watchers could hear their periodic nervous croaks. It was as much a hunt for food as it was a proving ground. Lilith had watched them training with their newfound weapons and had actually been impressed. These Abyssals should be a small but instructive challenge. The creatures’ many curling horns would give the succubi something to consider.

  It was a simple thing. Liimah would startle the herd and in its pell-mell attempts to rush away it would fall into the waiting blades of the hidden succubi. Lilith had seen this ancient tactic work countless times in both of her existences before and after the Fall.

  Liimah saw her fellow succubi settle into position and then turned back to watch the herd. A large, old Abyssal tore at the fleshy ground with his paw near her, oblivious to the threat, the fiery lights upon his scarred flanks etching his silhouette against the dark ground. Liimah kept her eye on him and when he had turned and ambled in the opposite direction she stood up suddenly and began to call out, her high-pitched ululating piercing the air.

  The old Abyssal paused and bugled a warning to his herd-mates. Then, instead of racing away with the frightened herd, wheeled around and in a flash of blazing light came for Liimah. It took only a moment for the creature to cover the ground before he was upon the succubus. With a flick of his antlered head he lifted her into the air and tossed her high over his broad back.

  Liimah landed squarely on the splayed antlers and Lilith winced. But luck was with the succubus. Undaunted, she twisted around, hacking furiously at the Abyssal’s neck. Lilith counted seven blows and he was down on his knees, screaming, still fighting but spraying spattering fans of black blood. His end was quick.

  Lilith shifted her gaze and saw the other succubi swiftly running after a pair of creatures that had separated from the herd. The Abyssals were driven into a steep crater from which they could not easily escape. The air was soon filled with the sounds of slaughter.

  * * *

  While each Abyssal had relatively little meat upon them the three creatures provided a grand meal for the party. The succubi were chattering, as they did, each describing some moment in the hunt with relish. Liimah, eyes glittering, occasionally rubbed her bruised ribs, mostly nodding along, her eyes more than occasionally darting to Lilith and Ardat for any signs of approval. She found none.

  Lilith sat quietly, chewing a stringy bit of thigh-meat, looking at Zimiah shining clear and cool in the otherwise fire-streaked sky. It seemed an astral antagonist to Algol, a body that harried by its very existence the old red star in its journey across the dark sky. She asked herself the same question she had done a thousand times before: Was that his sign? And again, she found herself agreeing with the legend, that it seemed more than a coincidence that Zimiah had appeared immediately after he had Ascended. Just the sight of it brought back so many bittersweet memories.

  She lowered her gaze, her eyes alighting upon the succubi, and nodded almost imperceptibly to herself.

  It won’t be hard to create a cult around him. All of the raw materials are there—his stoicism, his nobility, his enigmatic departure, and above all his aspirations. He has captured their imagination. This world has changed for the worse since his war. He could have never seen this coming. It is the right moment, the time for me to ask them to follow him—and me. To look to that star.

  Lilith tossed the gnawed bone into a nearby pool of lava.

  “Liimah, what is
it you seek? From your life?”

  Liimah blinked and stopped chewing, her expression suddenly serious. Ardat, who had been carving another chunk off the remaining Abyssal, turned and looked at her mistress. This question was not totally unexpected. They had been talking about this possibility off and on ever since they had left Adamantinarx.

  “I want to survive here. I want to find a peaceful place for myself where I can … be myself. And not be used by anyone for their pleasure. Or anything else.”

  “That seems attainable. As long as you are far enough away from the souls. Peaceful coexistence does not seem like something they are about.”

  Liimah nodded.

  “But what about your inner self? Is there nothing that you can imagine that might bring you more than just peace? A sense of … purpose, perhaps?”

  Silence.

  “It was the Ascended Sargatanas’ wish that those worthy of redemption seek it.”

  “But I have done nothing that would warrant punishment. Save being born here. Why do I need redemption?”

  Lilith cringed inwardly. She was right. The succubi, simple creatures that they were, had been used, had been a party to the evil that had been Dis, but had not overtly committed any punishable acts and certainly not any acts that might preclude them from redemption. If anything, they were to be pitied. Lilith did not like where she was going to have to take the conversation.

  “Being created here, being a part of this place, is enough, Liimah,” Lilith said plainly. “It is a dark stain upon your soul. But it need not be there for all eternity.”

  The other succubi gathered closer.

  “There are still demons and, yes, now souls here whose designs are dark and whose souls are even darker. I would say, still the majority. They strive for chaos, for a Hell of ceaseless carnage. It is their way. It is why they are here. And, yet, it is their presence that gives us a way out, a way toward salvation.”

  Ardat sat down and offered up the chunks of Abyssal meat she had worked free.