The bestial figure only glowered at the wendigo. The low growl communicated all he had to say on the matter. If you want to meet the tribal leaders, you must go through these formalities.
Slipping the wax-sealed parchment into the hip pouch at his side, the wendigo fell silent. He followed his guide as they drew nearer to the tree where Prock had found his perch.
Turning his head left, the acolyte noticed that the creeping insectoid he’d come to collect began crawling across his shoulder. He slowly lowered a jar over the winged, acaridic creature and slid a lid under it.
Prock grinned at his good fortune. He slipped the jar into a pouch of his own and hung it from his belt. Harvesting venom from the pincers could be done at any time. This clandestine meeting had presented itself as a rare opportunity to disrupt the movements of Lilth’s agents. If her brood had left the Noddic mountains again, it only meant trouble for the Order—and they had enough of that with the krist-chin invasion.
The acolyte stood on the flexible upper bough and withdrew his sharp, serrated blades. Holding a kama in each fist he judged the timing below as his new quarry meandered closer, and then he stepped off the edge.
Rocketing to the dirt below, Prock plummeted into a hard landing on the lush forest floor. His hook blades chopped cleanly through the larger beast’s forearm, severing it in two places. The acolyte planted the landing directly between the two arguing comrades.
The wendigo hissed and leapt for him. Prock greeted him with a spinning kick to the fangs while whirling to face the massive lupine who howled in pain and rage. It pounced for him with its remaining arm; the gory stump spurted hot blood everywhere, tainting the air with the smell of iron.
Prock slipped right, to the creature’s weakened side, and raked his blades across the werewolf’s midsection, dragging the beast’s internal organs to the outside. The disemboweled monstrosity screamed and stumbled over his own feet. Even its advanced healing abilities wouldn’t be able to sustain it.
Snarling through foamy fangs, the wendigo brandished its wicked claws and sidestepped towards the acolyte cautiously. Prock jumped and delivered a twisting, two stepped kick while simultaneously snapping his kamas out to connect with the back of the lupine’s head. Both assaults found their mark.
The wendigo reeled backwards and the blades bit into the flesh of the werewolf as it tried to regain its footing and take the attacker also into the afterlife with a final death lurch. Bursting open the rear of the cranium with a sickening pop, the skull split as the beast’s eyes rolled back; a freed chunk of bone fell away, spilling the aromas of copper and nuts into the air as damaged grey matter met the cruel and cold outside world.
Acting quickly, Prock used one weapon to hack the bladed head from its mate, creating an improvised wooden stake from the weapon’s match. He flinged the spike end over end and it lodged firmly into the chest of the vampiric wendigo. A swampy sort of mud leaked out from the wound as the thrashing creature collapsed under the white oak handle which had pierced his heart.
Vampires were susceptible to a few different kinds of wooden stakes. It had been rumored that only certain breeds of timber could put down an elder one permanently. He’d always used one of them for his kama handles. Prock only wished it had not been a mere wendigo. He would have liked to test the theory that white oak could take an elder down.
Prock grinned just as another massive werewolf burst through the foliage. Mil-khaw-mah’? The lupine was the biggest werewolf that Prock had ever seen—or imagined. The acolyte grinned and gripped the handle of his remaining kama. He hedged backwards and thought better than to press his luck against a tribal leader as renowned as Mil-khaw-mah’; he already had what he’d come for in his possession.
He only wished he could have intercepted the mysterious letter the vampire had intended to send to the werewolves’ kil-yaw’. He weighed his options and found other matters more pressing than a trifling curiosity—the risks were too great for such an unknown prize.
Lodging the remaining blade deeply into a thick tree, Prock used the improvised rung to dart up the trunk and away from the raging lupine. The acolyte quickly clambered up and through the thick branches overhead and away from the angry beast below.
The tree shook under the power of the werewolf as it gave chase, trying to clamber up and after him. Prock blew the shrill tone upon his whistle. Seconds later, the wyvern scooped him up from the canopy branches and carried him off into the distance.
***
eiztchkey flipped pages in his giant tome. The withered demon’s pale skin glistened with sweat as he thumbed the pages and arranged his inkwells. As head scribe of the Gathering he would soon be tasked with recording the ever increasing tension in the halls of the central stronghold.
He scanned old leaves with copied maps and sheaves of hand-written encyclopedic knowledge that had been collected by one of the First Elves. He’d pressed even lower ranking fiends than he into stealing it from an elven library. eiztchkey grinned as he read and thumbed the new binding and its freshly embossed words, “The Book of EIZTCHKEY.” He’d merely stolen the material and attached his name to it.
The country immediately north of Jand, the rocky badlands of Lol, marks the beginning of an upward rise which leads into the foothills of the Briganik Mountains. The mountain range protrudes from the grounds just north of Zipha’s border.
Ascending higher than the mountains themselves, in the second firmament, stands the great Luciferian stronghold. The monastery is fortified as any castle and walled against even the stiffest assault—though the Temple of Light is truly a sleeping kingdom whose citizens stretch across many countries.
eiztchkey turned a page where the same flowing script that penned those words had drawn detailed examples of the ancient Luciferian engineering—the kind that had been passed down by the watchers and keepers of the Machine so long ago. The scribe frowned as he looked at the penmanship. He would need to rewrite many sections in order to create a pseudapigrapha and pass it off as his own.
The interior walls are strengthened with massive bulwarks; bastions were formed out of earth long ago and piled into ramparts that can resist onslaughts from any known machine of war. Intermittent towers thrust up from the walls, fenced in by large parapets. It is more like a rock, firmly placed on its footings, than a city.
Grounds within the Temple of Light rise significantly even within the stone fortifications, as if the religious community walled off a set of plateau-like shelves nearest the mountain summit. Despite the defensive appearances, the powerful citadel is meant for show. It was built in the Dawning Days, when I was still young: before the flood separated the realms. Persons loyal to the Order can pay admission and enter to peruse the Luciferian capital and pay homage to its many reliquaries.
Frowning, eiztchkey knew he would have to rewrite passages, or at least strike out certain pieces that allude to the true origins of the book.
Firmly planted upon the Fields of Splendor—amongst the illiac flowers—rises the giant spire. The Babel Tower ascends like a monolith, placed there from the conception of this realm—before even my birth. Its footings are established within the mountain bedrock and it stretches vertically for a dizzying span. A gradually narrowing column of wide stairs coiled around, within, and through the structure. Before the tower can visibly end, clouds envelop its peak where it empties out into Paradise,
Those clouds blanketing the sky above the Temple of Light never move. They are a firm fixation and glow with pale light. Even if they are shaded with dirty browns and yellows, like the color of oxidized fruit flesh—it glowed resplendent closer to the Dawning. Often, lightning flashed in the sky and illuminated the expanse of firmament—trickling natural energy through the ethereal leylines as if they were conduits for such a purpose.
eiztchkey slapped the book shut. His ambition had always outweighed his follow-through and he daydreamed instead about snapping up an elven slave—perhaps he could convince other
s that he’d dictated it for the elf to write? Maybe, as soon as he could get away from the Gathering’s business next—though those moments would prove fewer and fewer if the overlords continued their current courses.
Paradise was a vile place. The name no longer held any significant meaning. Paradise, the Babel Heavens, had long ago degenerated into a filthy, dirty place which homed the most powerful demons who constantly fought each other both privately and openly as they vied for dominance, position, and power.
The upper firmament, as designed by hay-lale’, had long ago been laid to waste. Decay permeated everything and it stretched across the skies as an abominable desolation—and yet it was the most sought after real estate in existence. Dust of the land had ground into the firmament and stained the sooty floor of Paradise. That waste bled through as a fog of dirt and decay, visible from the mountaintops below, tinting the clouds with spalted browns.
The once beautiful place played perfect imposter when eiztchkey first arrived in the realm. It was a mockery of the Heavens, the seat of Yahweh, but a snare that had captured so many with its false glory in the old days of mankind’s’ great rulers, Lamech and Methuselah. Men traveled to this realm to see its splendors and ascend the Babel Tower to visit the only paradise remaining to them.
Ham, second son of Noah and great grandson of Methuselah, had been a frequent visitor in his youth. eiztchkey grinned at the old reverie: the demon had once given the man a tour through the Temple of Light—even if it hadn’t yet been called that. Ham carried seeds of discontent in his heart— eiztchkey could feel them and knew he must have carried them back to the cursed grounds of his ancestral Earth. His father had called him back home and ordered the begrudging youth to help him assemble his ark.
Ham had been one of beh’-tsah’s prizes. The demon lord had fed the man’s bitter spirit, leeching vitality off his energies. Paradise had inspired the son of Noah and he’d been in awe of the spire reaching into heaven… surely he would have initiated such a plan for the future generations of Earth.
The minor demon drummed his talons on the desk tucked out of the way so that he could record any business of record for his masters. He shifted into his noncorporeal form and reached out with his senses, trying to ascertain the locations of the powerful ones, should they allow for observers to detect them with a kind of spiritual echolocation.
Ranking members of the Gathering would all be tardy—as usual. He resumed his corporeal form and growled to himself in the empty room. The low ranking demon resented their systematic disrespect, though they would arrive soon and his position did enjoy certain benefits.
Perhaps eiztchkey could bribe one of the kitchen scut demons to keep back an elf the next time it was on the menu?
***
The glory of old had long since faded and the false luster of Paradise had been scuffed from every surface through the years; every inch of it bore the battle marks from the wars that erupted following the absence of the demonic leader, hay-lale’, Earth’s Lucifer. He’d promised his followers an acceptable substitute for the heavens that they’d forsaken. But Paradise had lapsed into a wasteland of broken promises and long-dead dreams.
In the center of the Babel Heavens, Lucifer’s darkened castle stood like a monument to the decay. The massive stronghold, wrought of solid metals, had streaked and stained from time’s passage with ruddy oxidized veins like tears of blood. Like the other castles belonging to members of the Gathering, that very same power which created the Babel Heavens had birthed the site as a critical piece of infrastructure.
Once resplendent, the Castle of Lucifer was the official meeting place of the Gathering and the residence of the one who lorded over the conclave of Demons. A vast network of metaphysical leylines connected below that fortress, tied together at the castle’s throne room—the ultimate seat of power in the kakos.
Sitting upon his throne, the dark lord beh’-tsah brooded over the treachery on the council. He’d long expected it; it was a way of life, but the timing of this uprising could not come at a worse time. Focusing on the subterfuge of his peers consumed far too much of his energies. The situation on the lower firmament required his attention before the Holy Spirit was allowed to run unchecked like a plague. It threatened to starve the overlords of the sins which provided the demons with dark energies that they so desperately needed to maintain their power: a kakotic vigor that fed into the lines of power and sanctioned the magic and very physics of this realm. The greater the spread of Yahweh’s Logos, the weaker the demons and supernatural magics would become. And beh’-tsah, as head of the Gathering, stood to lose most: as Overlord, his peers each owed him tribute.
Resentment bubbled up within the shadowy prince of evil. The time had come and even passed for him to descend and annihilate this threat. Had the Gathering been in in a more pliable season, he could have extirpated the threat at its inception.
He rose from his seat and snarled to the attendants posted just outside the sanctum. The scullions scattered, each fleeing to perform whatever menial tasks they’d been assigned. With the krist-chins’ actions enfeebling the source of magics, beh’-tsah’s progress toward his grand scheme would slow. Barring outside interference, beh’-tsah would soon crown himself as the new Lucifer; his primary goal since the Dawning Days tantalized him just beyond his grasp.
beh’-tsah had labored for his goal over centuries and had finally initiated plans to bring this work to fruition. But then this krist-chin threat came into the scene, acting as a reverse catalyst.
The demon sneered, glancing from banner to banner. They indicated his supposed allies and hung from the pillars in the sanctuary. When he ascends as Lucifer, he would horde it all—every shred of power would be his! He would become the chief deity over all sin in this realm and disband the conniving Gathering and all of his other personal enemies, especially the dark children of the western Noddic mountains.
In order to advance his grand scheme and deify himself, the demon would have to force the hand of those who’d secretly formed a coup against him, calling them out and utterly destroy them. Even now, beh’-tsah mobilized his armies and put them in strategic positions so he could spring a pre-emptive strike upon those who had labored for years now to ensnare him.
beh’-tsah paced around his throne and clenched his fists while phasing between his flesh and spirit forms. He detected the presence of allies and enemies as the Gathering had nearly assembled. It was time to go and preside over that wicked council.
He pushed through his sanctum’s doors and scattered the scullions. The overlord stepped into the center of his courtyard where a great pyramid rose, ringed by obelisks. The hollow enclosure served as meeting hall for the Gathering. beh’-tsah spotted the greedy eyes of eiztchkey the scribe who desperately craved acknowledgement. Looking right through him, beh’-tsah did not give it.
Some of the demon lords had already arrived and assembled in the great hall; the others would arrive shortly. exaporeh’-omahee was there; the withered and skinny demon who fed on despair sat nearby, pale as bleached bone. zaw-lal’ the glutton and gay-ooth’ the pride-eater had also taken their seats. makh-al-o’-keth, who loved to cause division turned to note beh’-tsah’s entrance as he whispered with the murder-lord, raw-tsakh’.
Still expected to come were gaw-law’, the shameful one, tah-av-aw’, who devoured the greed and lusts of men, keh’-sem who worked witchcrafts and sorceries, peh’-shah the rebel, sheh’-ker the liar, kes-eel’ the fool, and shik-kore’ the drunkard. Combined, they made the ruling thirteen.
Of all of his associates, shik-kore’ was the demon that beh’-tsah respected the most. He had been the lowliest of all demons at the beginning. In the original creation, there was no such thing as the fermentation—he’d literally arisen from nothing. He had also never shown any ambition to rise further within the Gathering and did not threaten the balance. shik-kore’ had been on the council since its conception; many others had come and gone as coups erupted a
nd fashions in sin changed. The demon, shik-kore’, was lucky in many ways. The addictive grasp that enthralled his sinners kept him strong, and his sin had never gone out of style.
The remnant arrived and the demons began assembling in the black hall, gathering around the table made of heavy, rough-hewn stone; many of them paraded in their prized slaves and an entourage of attendants as filthy trophies. As it ever was, the Gathering convened like a circus. tah-av-aw’ arrived, decked out with shimmering gold and jewels as he entered the Gathering grounds. Following came gaw-law’ who held the choker-chains of a chain of nude human slaves. gaw-law’ poked and prodded at them while he cackled, mocking and humiliating them for sport.
Each demon lord tried to impress each other with examples of conquest. beh’-tsah purposefully brought no trophies today. He intended to mislead his opponents, and his real power source, his seething bitterness, was what fueled him, not some perishable trophy.
shik-kore’ and kes-eel’ entered; they had common interests in opiates and stupefying brews. keh’-sem, peh’-shah, and sheh’-ker came in after, trying not to act conspicuous.
beh’-tsah snapped the demons to attention as they came to the room of meeting. Each flaunted his entourage and displayed recent acquisitions, talking through the cacophony The Lord of the Gathering shouted over their trite jockeying.
“Enough!” he demanded, flaring massive wings out from his sides. They relaxed and hung from him like a cape. “I have called this meeting for an important discussion that impacts us all.”
“It is not this supposed krist-chin threat you keep raving about, is it?” mocked the haughty gay-ooth’.
beh’-tsah glared daggers at gay-ooth’. Above all the others, the immaculate demon strived to retain the appearance of an angel, a beautiful child of the light—even if the Gathering had worked so hard to redefine beauty amongst their own. He knew of gay-ooth’s arrogance and that he was easily given over to rebellion and personal interests. The demon-lord suspected gay-ooth’s involvement in every coup against the Gathering since he took his chair. beh’-tsah wouldn’t put it past the conniving fiend who had purportedly tried to take the majestic golden key from this castle’s very throne room once over a petty dispute during the Rain Age. Such an action would cripple the powers of all the demon lords, unfettering the primary link between the thrones. The Gathering’s chair-holders would have their source of power hobbled. Functional existence of the leylines was fundamental to all parties and turning it in the tumblers of the cosmic device was unthinkable—even during a full-blown coup. Amongst this party, it was perhaps the only thing that could be considered sin—and it was not beyond gay-ooth’.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 43
