The Fallen 4

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  A gathering of those who would soon call him king.

  * * *

  Scox turned his long neck toward the sounds coming from the next chamber.

  Those representing the various races of the Community had been congregating there for some time, and they were not happy to have been kept waiting.

  “Master!” he called again into the patch of shadow.

  There were terrible screams from the chamber beyond, and Scox knew that one of the Community members had probably become hungry and made a meal of another.

  Such a volatile gathering, the imp thought, knowing full well that the Community races had issues sharing a world, never mind gathering in the same room. Scox was about to call for his master once more, when the patch of shadow started to undulate like a storm-swept ocean.

  Satan, the Darkstar, emerged in all his glory, his wings unfurled.

  “They’re waiting,” Scox said, wringing his hands.

  Satan glared. “They’ve yet to realize that it is their duty to await me and my commands.” He swiped at imaginary pieces of dust upon his armor.

  “Yes, I suppose,” Scox agreed as the sounds of disquiet wafted from the vast room beyond.

  “And do I look the part of ruler?” Satan asked the imp.

  Scox averted his eyes as he bowed his horned head. He knew only flattery would be welcome.

  “When the Community sees you, they will think of nothing more,” the imp spoke.

  Satan glanced toward the doorway that would take him out into the chamber.

  “This will be a historic moment,” Satan spoke. “When all beasts spawned in shadow at last recognize me as their lord and master.”

  Scox again bowed his head, his clawed hands clasped reverently to his chest. “I’m certain it will be glorious,” he added.

  Satan flapped his wings once more, ruffling the slick, black feathers, and strode out onto a platform of ice and rock.

  Scox followed, but only went out so far, watching from the sidelines.

  The gathering of monsters went eerily quiet as Satan reached the center of the stage. Scox extended his neck to look out across the vast amphitheater at those in attendance. All eyes—if they had them—were fixed upon the Darkstar.

  “Citizens of the nether,” Satan began, his powerful voice reverberating through the vast underground auditorium. “For countless millennia our kind has been forced to hide from the light of the world and our divine enemies,” Satan extolled, slowly pacing back and forth upon the stage. “But a plan has been formulated, and carefully executed.”

  Scox couldn’t believe his eyes. The Darkstar had the Community’s rapt attention. Perhaps they would recognize him as their leader after all.

  “And at last it has come to fruition.”

  Satan spread his wings and raised his arms.

  “I have orchestrated that plan, and I am here to bestow upon you that which has been denied to each and every one of your myriad species. I am here to give you what you have never been able to win for yourselves, no matter how hard you have tried.”

  Satan slowly scanned his audience, and Scox believed that his master was attempting to make a personal connection with each and every one of them.

  “I give you,” his voice boomed like thunder, “the world.”

  Satan’s words were followed by gasps from the beasts and fiends, and Scox watched the various monsters muttering amongst themselves.

  His master smiled from the stage.

  Suddenly a lone voice spoke from the crowd.

  “And what is expected of us? What do you require for such a prize?”

  The mutterings, squeaks, and growls grew in intensity, supporting the question.

  “What do I… ,” Satan asked, bringing a metal-gauntleted hand to his armored chest, “expect of you?”

  The Darkstar paused for effect. Scox could practically feel the anticipation growing from the bestial crowd.

  “Your adoration,” Satan announced, again starting to pace. “Your absolute obedience.”

  He paused again. The Community hung on his every word.

  “And for you to call me king.”

  The vast chamber became very still as Satan’s words began to permeate.

  Scox was unsure what he had expected. Jubilant cheers? Cries and howls of excitement? He’d certainly never expected what followed.

  As Satan waited for a response, an armored demon sprang up onto the stage. At first it seemed that the demon would kneel and swear its allegiance, but then it drew its sword.

  “I’d just as soon die before swearing my loyalty to the likes of you!” the demon raged, charging Satan with a sword caked with the blood from previous kills.

  Scox gasped.

  The blade descended toward his master’s skull, but Satan was faster.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” Satan said, reaching out with blinding speed to grab the demon’s wrist. He snapped its arm like a twig, causing its weapon to clatter to the ground.

  Scox winced as Satan tore the demon apart, limb from limb, until only a pile of bloody pieces remained.

  Finished with his gruesome chore, the Darkstar looked out to the crowd.

  “Anybody else?” Satan asked, wiping his gore-covered hands together. “Would anyone else rather die than serve me?”

  The chamber erupted into total chaos. Monsters of every conceivable size and shape charged en masse toward the stage.

  Scox knew that it was best to flee the scene, but he found himself frozen in place, watching the symphony of violence that unfolded before him.

  The beasts rushed Satan in a tidal wave of snarling, hissing, wailing fury that surged onto the ice stage with only one intention. Scox watched his master, marveling at the fact that Satan did not move from where he stood as the tsunami of violence bore down upon him.

  Satan threw open his arms and wings in a welcoming gesture as the creatures of darkness who refused to recognize his authority attacked with the utmost ferocity.

  They piled on him, weapons—as well as fangs and claws—ready to dispatch death upon the one who wished to rule them all.

  Scox stood transfixed as his master was engulfed. He was tempted to cry out but feared the beasts would turn their rage on him.

  So he remained quiet as the scene unfolded before his eyes. Scox never would have imagined so many different species of beast working together toward one goal: the murder of one who dared to proclaim himself king.

  After so many centuries of ruling themselves, these creatures of the darkness did not respond well to the Darkstar’s authority. It had been an interesting concept, but one that was doomed to fail—not that Scox had ever mentioned that to his master. To do so would have most assuredly courted his demise, and he quite enjoyed being the last of his species.

  Scox was considering retreating, when there was a sudden flash of darkness.

  Instead of an explosion of light, there came an outburst of shadow. Bodies flew in every direction, discarded and torn asunder by the mysterious detonation.

  Covered in the blood of his master’s attackers, Scox craned to see what had happened. If he hadn’t already been cold-blooded, the servant imp’s blood would have frozen to ice from the sight. The crowds of murderous fiends had been driven back, corpses forming a ring of death around the Darkstar.

  His glistening wings of ebony black unfurled, and he held a sword whose blade was as black as night.

  The creatures of the darkness were as stunned as Scox, falling back at the sight, gasping as Satan then stood, surrounded by carnage.

  “It doesn’t need to be this way,” Satan spoke in the calmest of voices. His voice was so soft and bereft of emotion that he could have been asking for a goblet of virgin’s blood or the time of the next full moon.

  Scox understood what he was doing. Satan was giving them another chance to accept him as their ruler.

  Another chance to live.

  And for a moment Scox believed that they were considering his master’s offer.


  Accepting Satan’s mercy.

  But beasts such as this seldom used their brains, being so caught up in their lust for blood.

  It was a Duergar troll, the largest of the troll species, and the most vicious, who raised its ax above its head, and with a roar inspired those still alive to attack once more.

  Scox saw the look upon his master’s face as they charged again. He was disheartened with what was about to occur, but he would protect himself—his mission—at all costs.

  He would prove a point to the survivors.

  Since the Duergar reignited the frenzy, it was only right that it was the first in this new wave to die. Scox didn’t know if trolls believed in anything beyond the life they lived, but whatever they believed, the Duergar was now confronted with it.

  Satan showed no mercy. His blade of darkness sliced through the tough leathery skin and internal workings of the Duergar, cutting it in half.

  It was as if the troll’s blood fueled the others’ stupidity, and they began to throw themselves at their enemy. Satan met their attacks, his blade of shadow cutting them down, one after the other.

  And still they came at Satan. It was as if they had committed to this act, and would see it through no matter how futile.

  Scox wondered if his master would have shown mercy if one of the monstrous Community had laid down its weapons, sheathed its claws, and bowed its head, swearing allegiance.

  Would the Darkstar forgive their indiscretions against him?

  This was a question perhaps for another time, for none appeared ready to give up without a fight. Demons, trolls, goblins, and giants fell before the Darkstar. Satan never seemed to tire, never seemed to falter.

  The chamber became choked with the smell of blood, and offal, and fluids of every conceivable consistency, and Scox could only watch as the Community was cut down.

  Then Satan left the stage, swooping down to slay those that sought to escape his justice. They died as all the others had, quickly, painfully, choking on their life fluids.

  Armor stained with the lives of those he had wished to lead, Satan walked amongst the fallen, seeking out those who still clung to life, and making certain that they clung no more.

  As he drove the end of his glorious black blade through the throat of a struggling frost giant, Satan turned his gaze toward the stage.

  To where Scox knelt in a pool of blood.

  The imp’s eyes locked with his masters, but he remained silent, waiting for his lord to be the first to speak.

  “Well,” Satan said as he looked back at the carnage that he had caused. “That certainly could have gone better.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jeremy dreamed of Vilma.

  Her lovely dark hair, her bronze-colored skin, her wings of fawn dappled with flecks of white and black.

  They flew together, high in the air above a fantastic city of golden spires. She teased him, attempting to evade him with some pretty brilliant aerial acrobatics, but he was a determined soul and matched her maneuverability.

  But he didn’t want it this way. Jeremy didn’t want to catch Vilma. He wanted Vilma to willingly come to him. He wanted her to know how right they were together. He wanted both of them to want the same thing.

  She dove down to the city skyline, weaving in and out between the towers that seemed to be made from gold infused with the power of the sun. Jeremy considered letting her go about her business. Then he saw her chance a look, to see if he was still there. Vilma smiled that smile that drove him mad, and Jeremy flapped his wings all the harder to catch up with her.

  With a smile like that cast in his direction, he would never give up the chase.

  The wind rushed in his ears as his wings flapped harder and faster. Vilma was almost in reach. He soared above her, looking down at her delicate yet powerful wings, the glorious musculature of her back that allowed the appendages of flight to move with such flawless efficiency. His eyes continued their journey over the beauty of her details, the long, muscular legs that—

  The tower needle seemed to appear from out of nowhere, but he knew he just hadn’t been paying attention.

  Almost striking the antennae, Jeremy narrowly averted the potentially deadly situation, but found himself spiraling toward the ground. Though barely able to control his descent, he managed to get some air beneath his wings just before he would have crashed through a rooftop. It wasn’t graceful, but it beat breaking a leg or wing.

  For a moment he lay there on the roof, stunned, reviewing what had just happened, and how Aaron would have berated him for not keeping his head in the game. Jeremy remembered Vilma’s muscles flexing and releasing beneath her skin of golden brown, the delicate line of her back, and the way her bottom…

  He closed his eyes and smiled, holding on to the memory with both hands. His head was in the game all right.

  Sitting upright, he checked himself to be sure he’d survived the awkward landing unscathed. He had. Getting to his feet with a moan, Jeremy glanced up to see an image of absolute beauty flying toward him at a decent clip.

  He considered diving out of the way but decided to hold his ground. What did the Americans call it? Playing chicken.

  Yeah, that was it. Playing chicken.

  He’d play the game to see who would blink first.

  She hit him like a runaway train, driving them both back along the roof in a tumble of arms and legs. Vilma lay atop him, looking down into his eyes, and Jeremy was startled by her intensity.

  He struggled to say something, but could only concentrate on the feeling of her weight pressing against him. Vilma’s wings fanned ever so slowly on either side of them.

  Vilma looked as though she were about to make a smartass comment that he should look where he was going.

  But instead her face darted down to his, her lips hungrily seeking out his own. He’d thought the kiss he had stolen from her on the school grounds had felt amazing, but now he knew how wrong he’d been. This kiss was electrifying.

  Jeremy kissed her back, his arms circling her delicate yet muscular body as his hands ran along her back, and onto her wings.

  It was as he’d always imagined it would be. He had an overwhelming feeling that this was right, and from her reaction to him, he knew she felt the same way.

  They were supposed to be together.

  * * *

  Jeremy wasn’t sure at first what woke him. The feeling of Vilma’s lips pressed to his slowly began to diminish, and he tried desperately to hold on to the memory of them for just a little bit longer.

  He was disappointed that it was only a dream. But what a dream! His body was slick with sweat, and he could still feel his heart beating triple time behind his ribs. He’d dreamed of Vilma often but never with this intensity.

  But the telly in the other room blared as if it were in the room with him.

  “The bloody hell,” Jeremy grumbled, throwing his feet over the side of the mattress and heading toward the door. They’d had a right difficult time getting the exceptionally crabby Baby Roger to go down for the night, and if he should be awakened, there would most certainly be hell to pay.

  Throwing open the door, Jeremy was assaulted by how loud the television was actually playing. Cursing his mother for her lack of common sense, never mind for awakening him from the most spectacular dream he’d ever experienced, he prepared some choice words for old Irene. As he reached the end of the short hallway and entered the small but cozy living room, he stopped. The telly channels were switching, but there was nobody in the room.

  “Mum?” Jeremy called out, his eyes going to the overstuffed chair where she usually sat, but the seat was empty.

  Like some sort of zombie he lumbered forward into the living space, coming up against the back of the equally overstuffed sofa and looking over the side.

  Nestled in the corner of the couch, back propped up against two pillows, sat Baby Roger. He was holding the television remote in two chubby hands and pressing the buttons, watching as the programs ticked
past.

  “Oh, my,” was all Jeremy could say as he watched the infant, almost convinced that this was yet another dream.

  Until Roger noticed him standing there.

  The baby looked at Jeremy with large and strangely intelligent eyes.

  “Would you be so kind as to get me a bottle, Jeremy?” Baby Roger asked before turning back to the television. “I’m absolutely famished… and I think I may have soiled myself.”

  Jeremy was numb with shock, capable of only staring in disbelief.

  Baby Roger glanced at him briefly, smiling a toothless grin and waving a chubby hand. “Jeremy, I have my needs.”

  The Nephilim broke the paralysis that had held him in place, stiffly turning away from the baby and lurching toward his mother’s bedroom, screaming for her as he had as a wee child when the bogeyman had come for him in the night.

  * * *

  Aaron stood silently in the doorway, watching Lorelei struggle.

  She leaned against one of the lab tables, rubbing her left palm, which was now twisted like a claw. Her expression told him that she was in great pain, and he felt that sorry, helpless feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew that he was at least partially responsible for her declining health and that there was no way he could make her better.

  The spells she cast, the spells that ravaged her body, were essential for their survival, and the survival of the world.

  He stepped a little bit farther into the room and cleared his throat.

  Lorelei immediately turned to him, a smile on her face as if everything were perfectly fine. But Aaron knew otherwise.

  “I didn’t see you at supper, so I brought you a sandwich,” he said, placing the paper plate he’d been carrying on the table in front of her.

  “Thanks.” She pulled the plate toward her with her injured hand. “Did you make it?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Ham and cheese with a little mustard.… That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Perfect.” She picked up one half of the sandwich and took a bite. “I used to be a mayo girl, but since I started playing with Archon magick, my taste buds have gone the spicier route.” She chewed for a bit, wiping the excess mustard from the corners of her mouth. “I wonder why that is.”