Otherworld Soldiers- Rise of the Apocalypse

by Fox Lancet

  Three Succubi, with veined wings and long restless tails, greeted Nefarion, who greeted them briefly while Syler disregarded any advances.

  Female Demons fell more than a foot shorter than their male counterparts, usually a perfect six foot, rarely shorter, occasionally taller. Their skin was a pale gray and their tails were the same length as their bodies, protruding from their lower backs to cascade into a lethal, pointed tip of flesh and bone. On their upper backs, powerful wings rested. When spread full length, the span was as long as a Demon was tall, seven and half to eight feet. The film between the bones supporting the tenuous canvases was a translucent black, etched with chaotic purple veins.

  Speech was not a preferred means of communication for female Demons. Believing actions were more powerful and valuable than words, they conveyed their emotions and opinions through body language.

  The Succubi residing in the room were creatures who chose pleasure for their existence. In other parts of the fortress, different Succubi preferred other paths. Some enjoyed sparring in the training caverns while others worked at the forge to create weapons of war. Succubi practiced fulfilling their own desires and had a deep respect for others who pursued the same, so they bonded with male Demons faultlessly. This shared characteristic also created conflict. Many Succubi longed for high power and had tried repeatedly and determinedly to seduce Nefarion into choosing them for queen. While the Lord never bent under such attempts, one Succubus had tried to force her place as queen. She had been slain by the Lord and his Elite, Syler and Hunter.

  From that point forward, any Succubus wishing for sovereign status left the fortress, and banded together, ultimately creating the Sixth Demon Legion. In the Sixth, a Succubus could become part of the Elite or become the captain of their own regiment, comprised of forty-two, it was the most of any Legion.

  The three Succubi crowding Nefarion were those dedicated to challenge. All had been on the quest for the queen’s position shortly after the death of the one who had tried to force the arrangement. Many warriors speculated they were Succubi who reveled in failure, for their efforts had lasted longer than the Demons could recall.

  Now, they slunk back into the shadows as Nefarion let the dark aura of the room overtake him. His many guards and cohorts leered in the flicker of the fire at the center of the room before the low platform furnished with a black wooden table. After stepping behind the table, he placed his claws on its top and rested his weight on his arms.

  “My Elite and I are to depart as soon as possible, as well as a chosen number of additional warriors.” At the announcement, many of the Demons in the room glanced eagerly at one another, sharing sly grins at the implication of battle. “The road will be long and treacherous, and as much as I would like to admit, dangerous.” A quiet, satisfied commotion hissed from the crowd at the affirmation of battle. “The enemy knows little of our plan, but enough to know where to pursue us. They will follow us to uncover our purpose; they will follow us to deter our success. So we shall move swiftly and precisely to avoid as many of the enemy’s obstacles as possible. We will travel through Schyroline Forest, across the dry expanse of Eslendor, and up Strace’s steep mountainside.

  “My best will accompany me and my best shall taste blood.” More enthusiastic growls emanated from the dire group. “When the blood sun sleeps we shall prepare, but at this point, the Elite shall repose from the mission we have returned from to reinforce their strength and vehemence.”

  Hunter grinned while Syler remained stoic, turning toward the doorway to his personal quarters. Nefarion glanced sidelong at Syler as a Succubus attempted to approach him again but was briskly turned down.

  Nefarion waved his hand in dismissal to the mass that departed at his signal. He then took his leave with his three black-clad Succubi trailing him. Hunter’s Succubus giggled lightly and quivered at his touch as they disappeared through the door to Hunter’s quarters.

  The room was shrouded in orange candlelight with the absence of the blood sun. Nefarion sat contemplatively on his throne a stone-throw from the assembly room with the black table. A claw hovered over his mouth and chin, his elbow propped on the arm of his seat. The other claw tapped meditatively on the other arm. His Demon features were crumbled in deep thought.

  War was coming to an end on Trissana. A thought he had never considered until too recently, too late. This rumor of a portal to another world brimming with life was the sudden widening of a passage that had been getting uncomfortably small.

  End of war meant the end of his domain, the end of his kind. Not because they would perish without it, but because they would go on to kill one another to achieve it. All Demons, no matter how passive, craved bloodshed. A desire Nefarion had never questioned until now. Though, with this new opportunity, he did not wish to question it further. Bloodshed and death was what he always wanted, what he always sated. The thought of having to rely on peace everlasting made him cringe, made him imagine throwing himself from the watchtower of his fortress. What purpose could be had with quiescence? To stand still and stare at one another’s mere existence? Killing the weak and proving his worth as the absolute Demon Lord was his purpose now and for as long as blood flowed through his veins.

  The Seraph King, Mosiah, had long been dead. By Nefarion’s hand nonetheless. Prince Kaleb was elusive, but a continuous thorn in his side. There were so few of them left. Not near enough to keep all Nine Legions gratified.

  The First Legion received the most attention due to Kaleb’s vendetta with Nefarion, although Nefarion harbored no such grudge against the Seraph, for he was merely a prince. Nefarion killed indiscriminately, save for others with similar titles to his own. He made a point to eliminate anyone who called themselves Lord or King, hence his assassination of the Seraph King.

  Kaleb could not succeed Mosiah until the original king’s assassin was publicly executed. Publicly being before the eyes of more than a dozen Seraphs, including the prince and any named commanders. Seraphs and their senseless laws. They only impeded progression. Fools. Kaleb would never kill him before so many others without being killed as well. And beyond that, he did not know what the Seraph laws required when the blood line was completely vanquished.

  Nefarion had not had a clear opportunity to eliminate the Seraph Prince, but even if one had come to pass, he knew he would not have completed the act. Not because of mercy or pity, but to salvage the enemy race so his kind could continue killing without turning on each other. So perhaps a form of mercy, though one reserved for his race.

  No. He shook his head and smiled slightly. For himself. To continue war, to continue his reign, to pursue spilling blood and dealing death.

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  “My Lord?”

  Nefarion’s smile vanished and his claws fell to the stone arms of his throne and squeezed. “What is it?” he growled.

  Hesitation prevailed.

  “The red sun comes, Lord. Would you like for us to return at a later rise?”

  The Demon Lord lifted his head and eyed the two Demons standing some distance away. His Elite. He bowed his head, looked at his lap, and shook his head subtly. “No. I was just lost in thought. I did not observe the final fall and rise.”

  “What troubles you, Lord? Perhaps I can assist in relieving your mind.” It was Syler. Only Syler would offer such support. Humble, unendingly loyal, and devoted to the cause. Nefarion’s cause. Nefarion’s wishes always came before Syler’s appeals. Though, the Lord knew it was not entirely for him, it was just how Syler worked. He was a rare Demon whose principles of duty took over self-satisfaction. As much as the Demons he commanded served him, they still had their own bloodthirsty agendas. Nefarion gave that to them, hence their solace under his command. Syler went as far as to put those needs on hold until his Lord was satisfied. This only bothered Nefarion on occasion. Otherwise it pleased him. It was the reason Syler was part of his Elite.

  Hunter was another story. In short, he prized himself for being an astute and un
stoppable killer who, as often as he did diverge from Syler, fought with him like a brother.

  “Lord?” This time it was Hunter. Syler had stepped back when Nefarion had not answered immediately.

  He waved off the concern Syler was emanating. “No, no. I am fine. Just very distracted, but I wish to get this next task under way.”

  “Of course, Lord,” Hunter said.

  Nefarion stood from his seat and moved to the candle flickering on the black table top. His Elite joined him without a word.

  “When we reach the gate, I am sending the two of you through without me. I must stay here to keep the enemy in check. You two are to cross over and search for the key as well as gather as much knowledge as you can of the world beyond. When you have either located, or better yet captured, the key, you will return. If tribulation occurs, one of you is to return to alert me, but the other must remain to keep track of the key at all times whether it is in your grasp or in someone else’s. Does any of this escape you?” Nefarion bowed his head as his Elite indicated their understanding. “Now let us fetch The Horde so we may begin this campaign.”

  Nefarion hefted himself onto the giant staircase at the long entrance of the fortress. The Horde was assembled at the bottom of the stairs in the great tunnel. They formed a collection of black Demons clad in chrome armor and equipped with vicious weapons, mounted upon powerfully giant black and sanguine equines.

  One of the chosen troops boasted a pair of spears on the back of each warrior. The lethal shafts reached far above their owner’s head, the points so sharp it was difficult to discern the tips. It was the fifth regiment, The Gluttonous, who prided themselves on their precise skill with the spear. Their left shoulders were equipped with high faceguards, reaching their cheekbones. The right shoulders had nothing, but their entire right arms were bound heavily in jointed armor. Not only did this protect the wielding appendage, but it also made their precision skills even more impressive. To hit a small target at a great distance encumbered with such heavy armor required adept practice and a certain level of talent.

  Syler and Hunter joined their Lord on the steps, following his examination of The Horde. Hunter checked all his weapon clasps as he eyed the armed demons below. His ax was suspended upside down, its handle laying over the center of the X the swords made on his back. The chain mace was snug behind his left hip. Four long daggers lined his belt on the right. So sure of his war-skills, he flaunted it with sparse armor. Syler, more humble with his Elite position, always wore the custom armor: arm, shin, breast, and back plates. Because of his high-profile, Nefarion always wore the customary armor as well, unless planning for a battle of epic proportion, when he would even wear a faceguard, which was not at hand now.

  The armor they wore was not adorned with any special engravings. Shaped steel fitted to its soldier. This was not the same for every Legion, but Nefarion preferred to keep things at a certain level of simplicity, wishing to focus on more important things than announcing one’s origin. Though, anyone belonging to The First was proud of it and voiced it whenever in the presence of one from another Legion.

  A well-armored regiment that always caught Hunter’s eye was Vainion. They were headed by a Succubus named Vinglorie. The troop was always clad in armor that was shaped to every contour of their muscles, or curves in their leader’s case. They would don a solid chrome mask with a horizontal slit revealing their eyes and a grate over the mouth that had faux steel fangs. They were not part of The Horde on this journey. Nefarion had only called for the first five regiments, the equivalent of 170 warriors. Vainion was the twelfth with 333 soldiers. Their great number always made for a great spectacle when arranged for battle.

  Hunter sighed loudly and went rigid when he realized he had done so out loud. Syler glared over at him from behind Nefarion, who ignored the sound.

  The Horde waited patiently, speaking enthusiastically to one another of the journey and the anticipated bloodshed to come. A respectful silence fell over the Demon soldiers as Nefarion stepped toward them on the stairs with an imperious presence.

  “And so let us go forth to spill blue blood and vanquish our enemy by conquering a new race! We will devastate our enemy’s masses once we have succeeded! No doubt, no hesitation, no mercy!” Nefarion mounted his steed. Roars of excitement resonated through the tunnel. Nefarion sneered and threw his head back; his giant equine reared and took off at a daunting pace. The Horde did not hesitate to follow its leader.

  Quiet hours kept the sinister host irascible. The night was consuming and eerie, but the Demons welcomed its presence. The three moons rested high in the sky, sending a lucid light through thick trees.

  Nefarion rode in ominous silence, contemplating the journey that lay before them. The clan behind him glanced fitfully at one another, eager for a chance to sate bloodlust and to work stiff joints, anxious to practice and enhance their skills of war.

  The trees they passed loomed so high their heads were lost in absolute darkness, their rigid branches clawing the still night air in boredom. Their trunks were of orange bark, narrow and gaunt for their height. But still their growth was dense and foreboding, the more distant ones creating a cluster of endless black voids. The forest floor was littered with fallen trees blanketed in black moss and broad-leaf ferns of purple and green.

  Hunter and Syler skirted The Horde while Nefarion headed it with intense dominance. Three moon-descends into the journey, his muscles were rigid with concentration. His awareness careened through the black woods about him. Though his eyes could penetrate the darkness, they could not tear through the shadows that grew from the depths of height and distance. He slowed The Horde and kept them wary.

  The sound of threat came swiftly, parting the quiet night air. Nefarion caught it with a claw, the barb of the arrow stilled just half an inch from his thick throat. A solider ten feet back was not so quick as a lethal barb thrust itself through his jaw and out the back of his neck; like a ragdoll, he collapsed instantly from his giant steed. Roars erupted and the group moved about in agitation as more arrows manifested from the deceptively tranquil darkness. Many missed and many found a tough target of leathery flesh that received and accepted them like mere slivers.

  Nefarion barked a sharp order to his Elite while the Horde moved erratically to avoid becoming a target for the unseen enemy.

  “They are nothing but mercenaries! Do not fear them!” He encouraged the entourage his Syler and Hunter disappeared in a stealthy offense. At Nefarion’s command, they moved to separate sides of the trail into the veiling shadows encompassing the assembly of Demons. After they were gone from enemy eyes, they dismounted with versed precision. The pair slunk through the thick growth of trees and brush, their red eyes ceaselessly scanning the heights of trees, trying to reveal the threat. The enemy was using the pitch of the forest canopy to conceal themselves from their targets’ night vision.

  When their eyes failed to assist them, the pair focused on listening. The twang of bowstrings and the sharp hiss of arrows became clear and both were able to accurately determine the enemy’s location. Each unbuckled a latch below the back of his neck. The latch released a massive chrome ax suspended upside down on their backs. The pair gripped their heavy weapons and lifted them over black shoulders simultaneously, though neither Demon was in sight of the other.

  Bits of moonlight dribbled through thick foliage above and glittered off the razor edge of Hunter’s ax as he swung the powerful weapon. Syler followed suit. The crack of steel cleaving helpless solid wood ricocheted through the trees, Immediately slowing the onslaught of arrows, dispelling the courage of the enemy.

  Two Demons lay still upon the dirt road, dark red blood pooling around their fatal wounds. The velocity of the pounding grew just before the sound of steel stilled and was replaced with the explosion of over-stressed wood and separating bark. Several snaps and a long groan were heard as the tree Hunter had been mangling gave way, breaking through several large branches before catching low on a sturdy tree a
cross the road. Syler’s tree followed shortly, falling at a high angle into a tree parallel to the road.

  Before the tree entangled in friendly branches, interrupting its descent, Hunter was already scaling its rough bark, his claws moving him up the slanted bridge, hefty ax still in hand. His black silhouette shot agilely over the road between the trees up into the height of the forest: the veil of the enemy. The moment he caught sight of the assailants, he barked over his shoulder to The Horde, “Slecktics!” He grinned eagerly to himself as the opportunity for bloodshed became apparent.

  Slecktics were blood hybrids between Demons and a now-extinct species of peasant creatures. They scavenged for all they acquired, eagerly taking any job for any pay, particularly vocations to kill. However, their tactics were usually unskilled, short-lived, and often futile. The mixed-bloods were considered filth, a degradation of pure-blood Demons. Hides a sickly gray-green were sullied with imperfections as simple as raised moles to disruptions as revolting as seething boils, caused by the species’ many adverse reactions to Trissana’s natural surroundings. The only advantages the raiders retained from their superior blood brothers was night vision—though less acute—as well a tenacious resistance to mortal wounds.

  Nefarion laughed deeply when Hunter announced their aggressors. He dismounted, the rest of The Horde following his lead. Many darted past him, quickly climbing the fallen trees, impatient to sate bloodlust.

  The glare of green eyes penetrated the darkness, tracking Hunter’s movements. His black silhouette slid through the shadows, but he did not attempt to hide, wanting his enemy to see his approach. Both creatures grinned silently at one another. In three blinding movements, Hunter held the Slecktic’s decapitated head by its meager gray hairs. Black blood with a rusty glare oozed from the bottom of its dilapidated neck and gushed in erratic streams from the stump on its shoulders. Its body sat erect for several seconds then leaned slightly before slumping fully from its mount on the tree limb. Hunter peeked over the broad branch and watched as the limp body collided into another massive wooden extremity, sending it into a loose pinwheel and spraying rusted black liquid in a circular pattern around the flailing body.