Saligia

by Gerard A Whitfield

  *

  Leftenant Geriond was not dead, he was not particularly in a state of rude health, but his harness had saved him. Incredulously, he watched as the Immortals sped ever onwards, oblivious to the screams and shouts from the troops they passed. They took those cries as their proud due, lesser mortals honouring and glorifying them.

  The General had insisted that Geriond receive some sort of formal reply, some acceptance of his orders. Well, thought the Leftenant, he had received a sort of response, perhaps not one the General would be happy with, but a hard one to ignore.

  Geriond hung there in his straps, swaying gently and wondering whether he had the energy to unbuckle himself, as Lucifer and his men burst free of the last line of defence held by Church Troops and raced on to yet more valorous deeds. His laugh started slowly as a chuckle in his throat, the containment of it causing him to wince with pain. The more he thought about Lucifer, the harder it became to hold it in, eventually he let go, a rip-roaring belly-laugh echoing all around him.

  *

  Captain Lucifer and his men rode with their heads held high; this was what they were made for. They would smite the enemy, they would annihilate all resistence, and once again they would be lauded by their peers, for their unswerving loyalty and dedication. His chest swelled with the anticipation of it all, and he gleefully looked for more targets.

  The strange thing was that the enemy were not firing back, in fact they had not moved, they seemed uncaring of his Angels’ advance. Instead all they did was wave encouragingly, or so it seemed, their calls and jeers egging the Immortals on. Lucifer was not going to disappoint them and gave the order for more speed, and it was then that the bottom fell out of his world, literally.

  All along the line of racing vehicles, clouds of dirt and debris billowed upwards, as the earth heaved and shuddered. Great gaping holes appeared, into which the Immortals and their vehicles plummeted, engines still roaring. They crunched hard against the bottom of the man-made pits, throwing men in all directions, their armour saving all but their pride.

  Lucifer spat a mixture of blood and dirt from his mouth and glared around, daring anyone to speak. There were, however, no others but Immortals in the ditches, the sides of the excavations too high to peer over. They could hear the laughter from both sides peeling out and Lucifer unbuckled himself and drew his pistol. Someone would pay for this, whoever had caused this debacle would die, he swore it. He was to keep his word, but not in the manner he expected.

  *

  The initial shock wave had been sufficient to ensure that the ditches worked perfectly as designed, they had caught their prey. Unfortunately, not the game they were looking for. Geriond was still chuckling, as he remembered the smashed data sheet, laughing as he recalled the boot to his stomach, guffawing at the cannon rounds striking his vehicle…and crying as the first explosions cracked across the still air.

  He had been there for a reason; the General had mined the north approach to Church lines. His engineers digging out an intricate series of trenches, something they had been working on in secret and which was finally ready. The required acknowledgement of the orders was to ensure that no-one made a fatal mistake…not even the prideful Lucifer and his fallen Angels.

  Chapter Two

  Avaritia

  Of all the vices there is none more frightening: Greed wraps the lives of men in calamities that they only escape when they are thrown to Hell's fire.

  - Aurelius Prudentius Clemens

  Geriond watched as the smoke cleared, the earth ripped apart by the incendiary action of the explosives. It was inexplicable, those who had everything allowing their pride, their arrogance, to cloud their judgement so. He tried to free himself, but apart from what felt like a couple of broken ribs, his right arm was also unusable, bent unnaturally backwards, and it was all he could do to stay conscious, rather than actually try and unclip his harness.

  The roar of approaching engines, reassured him somewhat, and he called out weakly, feeling relieved when the motors stopped, feet crunched on the rough dirt, and voices approached. At last he could let go, and slowly the blackness overwhelmed him.

  *

  Mammon, was not the most congenial of leaders, in fact he rarely thought about the general welfare of his men, preferring to concentrate fully on his one true passion; wealth. Not only that of actual wealth, translated on a battle field into coins, jewels, clothes and arms, no but also including the physical. Food, wine, forbidden pleasures, he collected and stored them all, his need for more drove him ever onwards. There was never enough of anything, his superiors thought him loyal, dedicated and ruthless in reaching his objectives. For him though, it was quite simple, he wanted it all, and all of it was for him personally.

  Therefore, he had stopped the forward push of his troops by the broken air car for one reason alone, he did not have an Officer of the Church, and he wanted one.

  *

  Opening his eyes slowly, Geriond knew that something was wrong, not just because he was strapped to a wooden slatted board, his arms and legs splayed wide, although this was one of the main indications. It was more the fact that this frame was strapped to the open roof of a vehicle and that he looked down onto the prone and leering Mammon below.

  Whatever the vehicle was, it was large, as it contained piles of different weapons, clothes, and coins, with the strangely garbed creature that was Mammon sprwled amongst them.

  “Ah, you are awake at last,” crooned the wolf-like little man, his lean frame and sharp features, along with his savage and avaracious gaze inspiring little of confidence.

  “Who are you?” mumbled Geriond through the pain, which still threatened to unman him, with every bump and jerk of his new transport.

  “They call me Mammon, the scourge of our enemy,” here he laughed, before raking a pile of jewels a little closer and rearranging his seating slightly, “rather though I am the collector of all that is shiny and bright and contains the least part of intrinsic wealth.”

  “And what of me?” gasped the Leftenant, through teeth gritted against his momentary agony.

  “Well, you were a bonus. I had decided to take advantage of the accident with the Immortals and carry out a little shopping trip. We did stop and relieve any of the remaining unfortunates of their possessions, and their lives of course, but that was not our real aim.” he listened to some sort of altercation outside and then continued, “Taking advantage of a moment of weakness, has always been my nature, and here we have such a moment. There is a gap to be filled within your lines and I thought that we were just the ones capable of doing so.”

  The vehicle ground to a halt and Mammon jumped lightly to his feet, “Come, you shall now witness the ready weakness of man and the inherent power of the Taurans. Such a pretty sight it will be!”

  With this, Mammon, leapt out of the rear of the vehicle and Geriond heard a small motor start and then screamed, as the wooden frame was lifted upwards and back. It appeared to be hinged, and gradually he was brought to the vertical, where he could see the Church lines arrayed before him. There was, however something different, abhorrent occurring. No shots were fired from either side and Mammon strode freely up and down in front of the lines, occasionally bending to pick up an object, which would sparkle in the light. He would stare at it, smile broadly and then drop it into a bag tied to his waste.

  This went on for some time, his men gradually joining him and their joyous laughter could be heard clearly, as they too found a trinket or two. Geriond was puzzled, no Church Guardsman had fired and silence reigned.

  Suddenly, there was a loud exclamation and the Leftentenant saw the Tauran Leader stoop and draw back a tarpaulin, there below lay a pile of what appeared to be gold coins. Delightedly, Mammon called his followers over and they began dancing and capering, golden metallic showers cascading through their fingers.

  What was he doing? There seemed to be no point to this, or did there? It was at that moment he saw Mammon glance slyly towards the Church
lines, a knowing grin flashing across his face. Then the little man, carried on with his strange dance, leaving his men to wallow in the pile of gold whilst he continued across the battle field.

  *

  Captain Meaker stood behind the Church lines and watched the same, almost ritualistic, tap dance. He and his men had been brought here to support the ill-fated Lucifer and his Angels, but now were themselves the front-line troops. They had been fighting this war now for far too long, were short of food, weapons and of course, like all soldiers, of pay. That though they could usually live with, if they were taken care of at least minimally, but he, like the rest of his men, had begun to question.

  Now, he could see the last great reason for fighting disappearing before his eyes, the demonic Tauran troops’ maniacal determination to kill, to infect, to mutilate. There, on the field below, these self-same cursed madmen, had thrown away their weapons, ignoring him and his men, and were successfully finding, or rather looting, those very things they needed.

  Mumbles and murmuring started and he could hear the Sargeants’ cries and curses, as they tried to instill some level of discipline back into their men. Even to his ears though, their voices seemed to lack conviction and more frequently, they too gazed with longing eyes towards the now gleeful Tauran troops.

  *

  Geriond was not quite sure how it happened, nor whether he had seen the first movement, but all of a sudden, Church troops began to pour over the barricades. They tossed their weapons aside, and raced each other down towards the apparent bounty on the plain below. He heard a couple of shots, but these soon died down as the trickle became a wave and the Church lines crumbled into a sea of rampaging and squabbling men. They fought with each other over trinkets and baubles, they stabbed and bit, punched and sliced, all in a frenzy of want.

  Their eyes seemed fixed only on their prizes, and to one side of them, now stood Mammon, his laughter pealing out. He saw one man, apparently blinded by his companion scrabbling through the dirt with his bloody fingers, looking for whatever he could find. Another, not waiting for one soldier’s body to turn cold, had taken a knife to him, stripping the recently murdered man’s clothes in his vicious haste.

  “Do you see?” Mammon had approached and now his sweet, decaying breath wafted by Geriond’s face as he leaned closer. The horrible man had climbed up next to the Leftenant and was gently stoking his cheek.

  “I see nothing but the foul touch of a demon,” said Geriond, struggling against his bindings, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his arm, “They have been infected with your greed, such avarice can only be a disease!”

  “Foolish man, you think so?” replied Mammon, chuckling quietly, “this is within us all, I’ve only helped a little. You have however, yet to see the best of this.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Geriond, his face troubled.

  “Give my Masters what they want, whilst taking all that I want!” he guffawed, his head thrown backwards.He seemed out of control for a long while, but then waved his arm imperiously towards the rear of his lines. Geriond could not see what was happening, but he heard the unmistakable sounds of engines firing up, their growls growing as they moved slowly forwards.

  *

  Groaning, Meaker pulled himself out from under the remains of his command post. His men had gone crazy, they had been attacked in some way, of that he was sure. Normally loyal troopers turned on their officers, shooting and killing where necessary, before deserting their posts in their indecent haste to join the revelry below.

  Weapons lay strewn all around, ignored and forgotten by the manic soldiers. Pulling himself up to the top of the barricade, he saw what was left of his command turned into an angry and animalistic mob. He dragged his field glasses out from under a dead Sargeant’s body and used them to try and see more detail. Quickly, he wished that he had not bothered, the feral madness of his men now matched that of the Taurans.

  Swinging his view around, he came across the curious montage that was Mammon and Geriond. One quite obviously a prisoner and Church officer, the other leaping and dancing with glee, occasionally jabbing his arm towards the rear of his vehicle, before breaking into laughter once more.

  It was because of this, that Meaker again swept the glasses from side to side. He stopped, cursed and then dropped the equipment. Meaker looked frantically around for his weapons, for anything with which he could fight. There were plenty of discarded pistols and rifles to choose from, but he rapidly came to his senses. One man was not enough, and he turned and ran, back towards his General, back towards some sanity. This position was lost and he had to warn them.

  *

  The clanking of armour and the hissing of escaping gas, gave Geriond a clue, if he needed any idea of what was to come. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the battle-cannon of what once had been Church-blessed armour poke into view. He also caught glimpses of twisted turrets and maniacal mouths which appeared to breath forth an unclean fire.

  “Mammon!” he screamed, “Why do you do this? You have won!”

  “No,” replied a quiet voice by his side, calmly and patiently, as though talking to a child, “not yet.You see, it is never enough. Now I want them to know the true depths to which they have plumbed. Their fear and shame is mine too, and finally the never-ending torment of their souls.”

  A growl had entered Mammon’s speech, his voice deepening and taking on a resonating timbre. As he moved into view, Geriond really saw him for the first time, his slight body bulking with muscle. His facial features had sharpened, his eyes now a sick yellow colour and his mouth filled with sharpened teeth. A red-forked tongue swiped in and out of a wide mouth and he raised clawed hands towards Geriond’s face.

  “Foolish mortal,” he hissed, his cloven feet clacking against the side of the wooden frame, “you too are mine. Though your torment must wait for now!”

  With that he bounded down to the ground and leapt forward, as the guns began to speak and flames to pour outwards.

  *

  Bodies exploded like ripe fruit, skin melted and ran like water, but the worst of all were the cries of anguish. They knew, in their last moments, they realised what they had done and what they had become. Many fell to their knees in prayer, others to run, to hide, but Mammon forgave none. Fully lost in his singular thirst, he drank each and every one of their emotions in, though nothing could satiate him.

  On he strode, his minions by his side, as he sucked the last drop of life from those that had been human. He would leave nothing here and then he would move on, further into the Church lines, where he knew more awaited him.

  Lost in his greedy ecstacy, he did not hear the approaching thunder, nor the brief looks of hope that flitted across the dying Troopers’ faces.

  *

  Meaker had reached a reserve outpost, untouched by Mammon’s wiles. There he had transmitted his report, his babblings at first being taken as those of a madman, but after the debacle of the Angels, the General had decided to err on the side of caution. Even now his orders had moved two reserve regiments towards the front lines and spotter craft had been sent in, to confirm the truth of Meaker’s insane ramblings.

  It was the noise of the aircraft that Geriond heard, the flash of silver as they roared past overhead and the spark of their engines that he saw. Now, he waited, for the obvious response that would come. Mammon said that he wanted and needed everything, well he was about to receive all that the Church could give him, and Geriond hoped that he would be happy.

  Chapter Three

  Luxuria

  The infernal hurricane that never rests,

  Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine

  Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them.

  - The Divine Comedy, Dante

  The ground was stained with the excrement of battle; bodies lay, each and every one of them with their own particular label, where frightened soldiers had pinned their names and last letters to their loved ones. Broken and shattered weapons,
rifled haversacks and half naked bodies clearly indicated that mens’ rampaging greed had overwhelmed them, before they too were swept away by the tide of war.

  Captain Meaker staggered forward, tripping here on a half-rotten corpse, falling there due to blast-riddled earth. He looked for proof of any survivors, but each gasping step confirmed what he feared the most; all were gone, they were no more.

  Tendrils of mist slowly rose, gathering first in wispy strands and then congealing into strings of sickly-yellow smoke. They covered the battlefield, masking the horrors and before he knew it Meaker was lost, his vision cut to a mere hands-breadth in front of his face. An animal terror settled upon him, as his nervous feet shuffled their way through what was left of his comrades; his imagination did not need to work overtime, he knew what he crushed beneath his unsteady footsteps, the squelching noise and erupting gases only confirming the fact.

  At last he could take no more and his mouth opened in a silent scream, his face distended, his eyes staring and lost.

  It was the smell that broke the spell, the deep, punguent, musk-laden smell which hooked its delicious fingers under his nose and teased him forward, neck craning and mouth drooling uncontrollably in a purely Pavlovian response.

  *

  Asmodai sat on his stage, his bulk resting within the curiously-wheeled construct, which ensured his immense body stayed up off the waxen floor. The circular devices were twice his actual size and his avian-like legs, pattered quickly across the floor as he waltzed from side to side, the many-spoked wheels spinning brilliantly as they gave him an undeserving grace.

  Behind him danced his vaguely human-shaped familiars, the incubi and succubi, their leering faces and suggestive bodies, hidden behind strange masks and flowing robes. Now and again one of them would perform almost impossible acrobatic feats, their clothing opening and closing on tantalisingly smooth limbs as they gyrated wildly.

  None of this stirred Asmodai, his appetites were legend, yet today he merely stared forward, his three heads for once in concert as they peered out of the tented opening that was his home. His visage reflected that which he was; one was bull-like, with powerfully spreading horns, the second human, from whose mouth issued wisps of smoke and bursts of flame, the last that of a goat, its eery eyes and masticating mouth speaking silently of a concentrated evil.