The Titan's Tome

by M. B. Schroeder

  Khain was waiting at the river for them, Charon stood at the back of his boat, the prow pushed up onto the fleshy shore leaving a blood trail, tinting the fetid waters. Khain, at least, had a semblance of flesh over a skeletal frame. Charon was simply a human skeleton in a hooded robe, his bony fingers clacked against the pole he used to guide his boat. His teeth chattered in annoyance as he looked over the number of mortals with his empty eye sockets.

  “Bold to bring more mortals to the Hells, Lord Armagon,” Charon said though his teeth didn’t unclench. His voice echoed up from his chest, bouncing along ribs and muffled by his robe. “Bolder still to bring this cleric. The demons will scent him out, his aura is a cruel beacon to them.” A chuckle leaked out between his perfect teeth. “Ah, but you’re no longer bound to the Hells. Does your brother know you’ve left him to the fate you led him to?”

  Morkleb shrunk further behind Seal, keeping her between them.

  Armagon answered with a silent snarl and boarded the boat with the others. He shoved a pouch at Charon. “The Third plane.”

  Charon took the pouch, opened it and dipped his skeletal fingers in to retrieve a tooth. A happy chatter of his teeth echoed along the river. He dropped the tooth into his mouth like a child with a sweet before pushing the boat off the wounded shore.

  ***

  Sahra met them on the barren shore of the Third plane. “Your father is away.” She eyed Golas dubiously. “You sure the mage can break through the spells?”

  “He’s powerful enough,” Armagon answered as the others jumped from the boat. He clapped a hand on Morkleb’s wing-covered shoulder making the young cleric jump. “But it’s easier if we just break it.”

  Seal scowled. “What spells?”

  “Around Lord DraKar’s cell,” Sahra answered.

  “The caster will know as soon as they’re broken,” Golas pointed out.

  “I know,” Armagon grumbled. “We won’t have long before Father returns.” He sneered at the term.

  “Where be the cell?” Kharick asked.

  Sahra pointed to a distant, walled structure. “Lower level of the citadel. Most of the demons are clear.” The landscape was cracked with deep crevices of fire. Beyond the shore was one such ravine that spat flames from a bottomless depth. Only a narrow bridge offered a way across.

  She nudged the large sack at her feet with the toe of her boot. It shifted like a large snake was inside. “I have his armor and weapons.”

  ***

  DraKar stirred as the locks to his cell clicked open and the bar slid away. He raised his head, struggling against the iron muzzle, and grimaced at how weak he was. His eyes widened when, instead of a demon opening the door, he saw Armagon. Though, they narrowed and a pitiful snarl slipped past his muzzle when he saw Golas behind his brother. Not only Golas, but a whole group of people. DraKar frowned, there was Seal, the giantess, and their cleric. Beyond them, a dwarf and a half-elf. What the Hells was he doing with so many people?

  “Don’t argue with me,” Armagon said when DraKar’s expression changed. “Just say thank you, and once we’re out of here, you can yell.”

  DraKar continued to scowl but didn’t say anything as Armagon freed him. The black blood of sacrificed demons painted over the walls stuck to DraKar as he stepped away from it. The whole room was coated with the congealed ichor to power the spell that kept him from using magic. He relied on his brother to help him walk out of the cell, the wounds from his latest torture cracked open and oozed from the minor exertion. Once out of the room, magic swelled through him again, like air returning to a choking man. Armagon draped a robe over him, his armor would have to wait until the demon blood was cleared from him.

  Their group was crowded in the hall outside. Simply cut, mundane stone made up its construction. Along the hall, more iron doors marked where other prisoners were kept by Mammon below his citadel. Torches lit the area between each of the doors, and guttered black smoke that collected along the high ceiling.

  DraKar took a moment to look over the odd group, he would ask Armagon about them later. Khain and Sahra were there as well, the dark blood of DraKar’s cell guards still dripping from their blades.

  “Take a moment,” Armagon insisted. With DraKar leaning on him, he focused the clerical powers he was learning and healed his brother.

  DraKar startled as his wounds knit shut and the warmth of the clerical power flowed over him like water. “How?” He released control of his newly restored magic and looked over Armagon’s aura. The black taint of the Hells was gone, but shadows still swirled around and through him, silhouetted by a halo of light. DraKar choked on a breath.

  “I carry the NecroKwar. I’ll explain more when we get out of here.”

  Madger stepped forward. “I can help clear some of that.” She gave a little gesture to the grime coating DraKar’s body. He tensed before her, his eyes hardening. His spell cracked with purpose and strength despite his haggard appearance, cleaning him. He continued to stare at her, as if daring her to make another comment. She suppressed a frown and retreated the step she had taken.

  “I can’t believe it,” Golas muttered. He looked on in awe, not only at Armagon’s ability to heal, but at the black aura of power around DraKar.

  DraKar returned the appraising look at Golas with a growl. “I can’t either.”

  “He’s evil!” Morkleb cried.

  “Enough,” Armagon snapped. “Let’s go.”

  “Clearing the way,” Khain said and hurried down the corridor.

  Dozens of bodies littered the stairs that led out of the dungeons, but no demon remained to hinder their escape. When they reached the courtyard of the citadel, Khain stood in the middle, waiting for them. The remains of demons, that had been brave enough to try and stop him, lay cooling on the dirt.

  “Where is Father?” DraKar asked, detest at giving Mammon the title heavy in his voice, but it was better to use it than to draw the devil’s attention. He still leaned on Armagon, his wounds were healed but only time would give him his full strength back.

  “Summoned to the Seventh plane,” Armagon explained.

  Sahra offered the bag. “Your gear.”

  DraKar dipped and hand into the bag and the fluid armor flowed up his arm and over his body. He only took his sword from the pile of weapons within, he was still relying on Armagon’s support too much to carry anything more. He eyed Morkleb. “What the Hells are you doing with the damned cleric? We can’t teleport with an icren.”

  “You’ll just have to walk,” Armagon answered with a grin. “And I’ll explain on the way.”

  DraKar flinched as he tried to support his own weight. “We won’t get far. Father will be back soon.”

  “We just have to get back to the river. Charon is waiting for us. We’ll go to the Seventh plane and free Selien. Then we go to Limbo and kill Arkhed.”

  DraKar was already struggling to keep his legs moving as they hurried out of the citadel gates. Khain and Sahra ran ahead, keeping away any demons foolish enough to come out of hiding. With Mammon gone they were more concerned about keeping themselves intact than crossing the brothers.

  “Is that why you dragged so many others here? Arkhed?”

  Armagon tapped at the NecroKwar on his back. “I was given instructions.”

  DraKar cursed under panting breaths. He couldn’t keep up the questions as they left the citadel behind. Armagon took the time to introduce the people who’d come with him to the Hells, even Seal. DraKar gave her a withering look and she returned a scathing one. Armagon let them have their posturing moment before continuing with the explanation of how they’d gotten to the portal on the icren isles and reached the Third plane.

  After several hours DraKar groaned and staggered to a stop. “Enough. Let me rest.” He sagged to the ground and barely stayed upright. He crafted a spell to communicate with Armagon via their thoughts. “Explain it to me. All of it. Very slowly.”

  Armagon motioned for Sahra and Khain to secure the area and sat
as well. He handed DraKar some food before answering with his own thoughts. “Selien is Death.”

  DraKar stopped chewing the tough meat and went very still. Only his eyes moved to lock with Armagon’s. The slow, echoing thought dragged across the spell between them, an undertone of dread and rage vibrated along it. “Death?”

  “Peace, DraKar.”

  A rumbled stirred in DraKar’s chest but he settled and took a breath. “Continue.”

  Armagon let out a sigh and explained everything. From meeting Sadria, and what she’d become, to what Selien had told him.

  Madger gaped at the pair. “I thought mages couldn’t communicate through a spell to non-mages.” The weaving of magic was delicate between them. It was unmistakably a communication spell, but she wouldn’t intrude and study it deeper.

  “The magic has to form a connection,” Golas said when DraKar ignored her. “It requires the mage to know the mind of the person their touching.” He made a dismissive gestured toward the sarpand. “These two have been around each other most of their lives.”

  “Here, lass,” Kharick said and handed her some food as well. “Best we all take the time to eat. Leave ‘em to catch up.”

  “You turned yourself over to Death,” DraKar said. His displeased tone carried through the communication spell.

  Armagon gave him a pitying look. “I was always hers, always Selien’s. We’ll figure out a way to break your soul away from the Hells without binding you to a god or Entity.”

  DraKar grunted, the state of his soul could wait. “Did she manipulate you? To fall in love?”

  Armagon scoffed aloud. “No. She hadn’t intended it. Freewill is beyond the touch of gods, devils, or even Entities. But when She became mortal, or imparted a fragment of Herself into a mortal body, with the help of Her Sister—”

  “Life?”

  Armagon nodded. “She also gained mortal desires, emotions… love.”

  “And now?”

  “I still love her. She gave me Her sword. I’m her Champion.”

  DraKar’s lip lifted from his fangs, trembled, and relaxed. “If that is what you want.” He heaved a sigh, rolled his shoulders and settled his wings. He ended the communication spell and reached out a hand to his brother. “I’ll help you.”

  Armagon clasped his thick forearm and stood, helping him up. “Then we should get going.” He looked to Sahra. “You’ll have to stay behind on the Seventh plane, in case something goes wrong.”

  “And you need to be rescued again.” She grinned at him.

  Armagon gave her a suffering look. “Besides the fact you can’t leave the Hells.”

  Camry interrupted, “What about Selien’s soul? What will happen to it? Can she come with us?”

  “Her soul is untouched by the Hells,” Armagon answered. “Once out of the room the archdevil has Her imprisoned in, She’ll be free.” He kept up the farce of Selien’s soul being that of a simple mortal, that no prison could hold her if she didn’t wish it. It was easier.

  “Not being a soul bound to the Hells, like me,” Sahra explained, “she’ll likely vanish shortly after the prison is breached.”

  “Killing Arkhed won’t be easy,” DraKar muttered.

  “Just get me close enough,” Armagon replied with a tap of his claw to the hilt of the NecroKwar.

  Chapter 28

  317 Br. summer

  “The taking of sarpand hide for armor is a tradition among the nomadic human tribes of the southern continent. Though their prey has become less populace, the nomads move to the cliffs and aeries during the tenth year of the mating cycle of the sarpand, when the females become fertile. Many sarpand still use those ancestral caves to meet if they do not have a life-mate. There, the nomads can easily set traps with nets to capture their prey.”

  -A Study of the Indigenous People of the Southern Continent

  A s they continued across the barren landscape, Camry moved to walk beside DraKar. The difference in size between him and Armagon astonished her, and she craned her neck back to look up at him as he glanced down at her.

  “What is it, child?” DraKar rumbled.

  “I wanted to thank you.” She wasn’t sure why the brothers insisted on calling her child. She was one hundred and sixteen years old, fully mature, but it seemed foolish to point out the obvious.

  DraKar raised an eye-ridge at her.

  “You saved my father. I wouldn’t be alive if you hadn’t sacrificed yourself.” Camry smiled up at him, hoping he would return it. She hadn’t seen him change expressions much, but she was still learning how to read sarpand features.

  Sacrificing himself hadn’t been the wisest choice in his lifetime, but he kept from voicing it. There was no good answer he could give her. He would not tell her she was welcome, he had no direct hand in her birth. Saving her father was simply a by-product of not leaving Armagon to face his fate alone. Whatever affection, friendship, he had felt for the elves he’d guarded, had faded long ago.

  Camry’s smile faltered when DraKar didn’t answer her. She was puzzled by him ignoring her. His distant look and the neutral expression on his face added to his air of disregard. She dropped her gaze from his face and fell back to where she had walked before, beside Golas.

  “That, my girl, is the true nature of a sarpand,” Golas said.

  Camry scowled as she watched the dirt pass under her feet. She didn’t want to argue with Golas again. Armagon had opened up to her, if briefly, and she believed there was more to the brothers than her mentor thought.

  By the middle of the second day, the river came into view, the dark waters churned and bubbled with unknown depths. The stone bridge crossing the long chasm parallel to the river was a familiar landmark. Fire belched within the ravine blocking any other path across. As they neared the crossing, a small winged messenger demon approached. The creature looked like a bald child, with red skin and wings, a thin tail flagged in the air as it flew toward them.

  “My lords!” it cried with a voice high and lilting. “My lords, please wait!”

  “Go,” Armagon ordered. “I’ll kill it so it can’t report back.”

  The rest of the group quickened their pace, crossing the bridge. DraKar gave a bitter look over his shoulder, he didn’t like running from demons.

  The demon landed, standing four feet tall and looked up at Armagon pleadingly. “Please, my lord.” It glanced back at DraKar with a whine. Turning back to Armagon, it held up its hands, trying to show it wasn’t armed and had no desire to fight.

  Armagon pulled the NecroKwar free and advanced on it. He didn’t care to hear its message, and it cringed as he swung his sword.

  The blade stopped, caught, and a flash of red lightning knocked Armagon back. He had barely kept hold of the sword and sat up in shock. What could have stopped the NecroKwar?

  Asmodeus stood before him, shed of his illusion of the messenger demon. “That piece was a unique trophy from Arkhed’s labs,” he castigated Armagon as the smoking, ruined gauntlet fell to the ground.

  White robes settled around the archdevil, layers of silks and gold-embossed cloth rustled to a stop. As he spoke, he gestured smoothly with long, elegant fingers tapered to manicured black claws.

  “Your father and I talked. It was a clever enough plan, sending an archdevil to my realm unannounced. Making him think I had summoned him.” He leered down at Armagon, his thirteen-foot stature dwarfing the black sarpand. Lips curled back from pearly-white fangs as he examined his foe. He stroked at his red face, fingers traced along his elongated jaw and pronounced cheekbones.

  Armagon struggled to rise, but Asmodeus held him down with a powerful spell. Flashes of memory from his first encounter with the king of the Hells, sent tremors of fear and anger through his body. Selien dead, floating, rotating slowly, in front of the archdevil.

  “But we heard you’d taken up the NecroKwar. That you had a plan to come home.” Asmodeus looked back sharply, as DraKar flew toward him and, with a casual flick of his hand, sent the blue sar
pand tumbling from the air, into the fire of the chasm.

  Khain and Sahra urged the rest of the group to run, hoping to reach the river before Asmodeus took his attention from Armagon, but agonizing fear rippled through them. Only the insistent pushing and cajoling of Sahra and Khain kept them moving. The presence of the king of the Hells was worse than facing a legion of demons.

  Asmodeus took a step closer, leaning over Armagon. “I want the sword, and I want you to give it to me.”

  With a roar of defiance, Armagon lashed out with his clerical power and swung the NecroKwar. It was a haphazard fling of power and left a searing headache in its wake. The devil’s magic shredded from the force behind the stroke of power, enough for Armagon to use the NecroKwar to fully break free from Asmodeus’s spell. The blade swept past the archdevil’s face, leaving a thin wound on his cheek. Dark blood swelled and began a slow drip as Asmodeus jumped back, a sharp cry of pain echoed across the landscape. He clutched at his face as though he had been horribly wounded.

  Armagon gasped, squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. It was like a rope burn had blistered up behind his eyes. He pushed the pain aside as he’d learned to do with any physical wound and scrambled to his feet, hoping to escape the archdevil.

  The rest of the group stumbled to a stop and watched the fight. DraKar was missing, and Charon was waiting, his skull unreadable. The black river lapped at the shore beside them, leaving green residue on the red ground.

  “Get on the boat!” Khain ordered.

  “We should help him,” Madger said.

  “You can’t fight an archdevil,” Khain snapped. “Especially not the king of the Hells!”