by Drew Foote
Kalyndriel felt the entrance to Limbo singing in the distance, calling to her from the depths of the waiting nightmare. It was a soft and gentle spot amid the jagged heart of the Ditches, a rose in the middle of bleeding thorns. She could lead them there.
She knew her duty. She would not fail. She turned to her nervous companions. They looked to her for strength and leadership.
“Follow me.”
She spun and strode into the hungry Malebolge, black wings unfurling as she led the way into the heart of darkness. Kaly was unafraid of the Malebolge and its inhabitants; she was far more afraid of what lay within herself. The Devil Ditches should be afraid of her.
Kalyndriel moved swiftly forward on narrow ledges of sliding dust, flanked on each side by pits of roaring flame. Monstrous forms swam and slithered in the depths of the pits, hungrily awaiting the slightest misstep. The treacherous causeways wove and twisted into the core of the Malebolge, a web of dead-ends and deadly pitfalls. A wrong turn would be the end of them all.
Anguished howls rose unendingly from the depths. Exceptionally wicked souls, those guilty of treachery against their fellow man, lay chained within the ditches. The flames immolated them for all eternity, their undying essence feasted upon by hateful creatures. The massive, sinuous forms of Ditch Vipers slid below.
Kalyndriel strode onward without hesitation, her footsteps sure and true. Arcturus clung desperately to her midnight spaulders as she moved forward relentlessly. Barnabas scampered gingerly behind her, his normally collected face alarmed. Walter brought up the rear, his steps careful and his thoughts troubled.
Walter experienced horrors far worse than the Malebolge in the Tower, but they were filtered through a second-hand lens. He experienced the tomes’ lives as though they were his own, true, but there was something inexplicably different when he was truly in the midst of such peril. He realized, with little surprise, he still had much to learn and overcome.
Kaly continued along the scorching path, her thunderous steps guiding them unerringly toward the heart of the 8th Circle. Her Angelic vision saw the glowing truth of her route, and she ignored the deceit in other, false paths. Barnabas recognized, with chagrin, she was the perfect guide. They could never have made it through without her.
Even with Kaly’s adept leadership, the danger was real. As they navigated a sliding hairpin turn between ditches, a monstrous burning form reared its reptilian head from the nearby depths. It writhed and twisted above them, a fiery worm from the blackest of humanity’s dreams; a Ditch Viper, one of the Malebolge’s deadliest predators. The Vipers devoured their prey whole, digesting them in the acidic bile of their bowels for all eternity. There was no death, no escape.
An enormous mouth opened, large enough to swallow an ox, filled with row upon row of scything fangs. A hiss of steaming lava issued from its cavernous maw. Unknowable hunger and aggression filled its eyes like glowing orbs of madness.
Kalyndriel did not flinch. Indeed, she did not even slow, her lance materializing instantly within her hands. The weapon was now a pulsating thing of utter shadow, a spear of negative energy, and it snapped out with horrifying speed. Its stygian blade punched smoothly through the Viper’s head.
The last look in the Viper’s eyes as it slid bonelessly into the ditch was one of surprise; it was no longer an apex predator in those wilds. Something far more dangerous now hunted. The Angel did not stop.
Barnabas, Walter, and Arcturus struggled desperately to keep up with her. Arcturus had wisely vacated his precarious perch atop Kaly’s shoulder, and he flew pell-mell after her furious form. Kalyndriel moved as one possessed, indomitable and unceasing, and they were uncertain if she would wait for them if they fell behind.
She sped ever faster, her aggression building like a volcano. Her black wings wept trails of steaming shadow in her wake.
Other foolish beasts challenged them from time to time. A pride of Hellcats, a pack of Soul Wolves, and two additional Ditch Vipers sought to test their might against the Malebolge’s unwelcome visitors. Each time, Kalyndriel dispatched them effortlessly, her steps not slowing. She put them down like stray dogs.
Pathetic vermin.
Kalyndriel’s lance, the manifestation of her blackened soul, now seemed to devour the nearby light. It scythed through their attackers like chaff, obliterating them. Eventually, even the formerly ferocious beasts of the ditches shied fearfully away from Kalyndriel’s approach. She was an unstoppable force, and she led the party inexorably into the Malebolge’s pulsating heart.
Kalyndriel’s mood was as dark as her midnight wings, and the sight of her lance sickened her. She had not expected it to appear … like this. It felt alive in her hands, vibrating and shaking, and hungry. So terribly hungry.
The weapon screamed in her mind, the keening howl of a starving wolf. It begged for blood, a monstrous beast longing to bury its muzzle in viscera. Kaly’s mind trembled beneath the insanity of the lance’s roar. It repulsed her, terrified her, and yet … it made some very good points.
Punish!
Avenge!
Slaughter!
Kaly gritted her teeth with determination, struggling to rein in the madness. She felt they were blessedly close to Limbo now. It called to her, its melody soft and sad, and the Angel surged forward in desperation. She must hurry.
She had to get away from that place, and quickly. The predatory song of the Malebolge ate away at her, an acid to her already vulnerable divine essence. She felt herself succumbing to its vicious rhythm, her tenuous grasp on grace fraying. Kalyndriel prayed for strength, but no one was listening.
She was alone.
Except for her ravenous lance.
Barnabas and Walter exchanged worried glances, both recognizing the peril of their current predicament. The stalwart Avenging Angel was losing the battle within herself. The wrath pouring from her wounded soul was a suffocating miasma, threatening to choke the life from everything nearby. Her inevitable Fall had previously sounded exciting to Barnabas, but he now realized that he wanted to be nowhere nearby when it happened.
They pressed forward with labored breaths, the pace merciless, and they entered a wide plateau amid the sulfurous spires of the Malebolge. Kalyndriel sensed Limbo just ahead, and she made for it with one final, desperate sprint. Barnabas and Walter dashed hurriedly after her, too out of breath for words.
Without warning, the flames in the surrounding ditches roared and screamed with one voice. They surged into Hell’s sky; colossal pillars of fire, and thirteen malevolent shapes hurled themselves from the inferno. They were twisted and jagged things, their bent bodies hemorrhaging vicious spines. Long arms, tipped with poisonous claws, reached out to tear flesh. Guttural barks slid from misshapen throats deformed by an overabundance of teeth.
Barnabas immediately recognized the creatures from Demonic legend: the Malebranche, the terrible guardians of the Malebolge. They were predation and lethality given shape, mercilessly hunting anything that moved within the depths of the ditches.
That was bad news; Barnabas stepped quickly forward, his hands raised in a gesture of peace and goodwill.
“Listen to me closely,” he pleaded desperately with the scowling Malebranche. “You need to run. Right fucking now.”
The foremost among them laughed heartily with wretched humor. It stepped forward, spines quivering and tail writhing. It extended a clawed finger.
“Despair, chattel! You find yourselves before the legendary–”
There was a soft snick. Much to the Malebranche’s surprise, the lance that sprouted miraculously from its face interrupted its prepared diatribe. The remaining Malebranche gaped in open-mouthed shock at their leader, who collapsed in an undignified heap before the nightmare in black plate mail. No one had even seen her move.
Barnabas merely shook his head sadly. Walter and Arcturus looked away. Things were about to go very poorly for the Malebranche.
The twelve beasts finally leapt into action, descending upon Kalyndriel l
ike a ravenous horde. They lunged at her, claws raking out with poisonous tips. They struck with barbed tails, razor-sharp tips seeking to disembowel her. The ancient Malebranche attacked with every ounce of their substantial might, working together as a deadly pack.
Upon reflection, Barnabas decided it was like watching a gaggle of toddlers try to fight a city bus. Kalyndriel slid with impossible speed, faster than even the Demonic eye could detect, rippling through the sultry air like a heat wave. The slightest whisper of her unnatural motion was enough to turn the stomach with vertigo.
Snick. Snick. Snick. The Malebranche now numbered nine.
Barnabas was struck dumb by her grace. It was miraculous, outlandish, and terribly unfair!
It occurred to him that the Angel, so tragically clumsy with social interaction, was a thing of breathtaking beauty when in her own element. She danced as though to a song only she could hear, elegant wings ripping the air like a black ballroom gown, and the world around her stood still. Her artistry was impeccable.
Kalyndriel was made for this. As surely as any creature could have a divine purpose, this was hers. She was a maiden of the battlefield, bred to carnage, a holy predator of brutal prowess. She was utterly unstoppable.
It was a slaughter. Her lance lashed out repeatedly, the barest flicker of movement, and the Malebranche fell in mangled heaps of flesh. Barnabas felt an unfamiliar tinge of heartbreak at the sight of the Angel losing herself, knowing that her wrath might well herald the end of the world.
He longed to act, to do something, to stop the disaster before it was too late, but he found himself unable to move. He was as paralyzed as a fawn before the hunter.
Only a handful of heartbeats had passed, and there were but a handful of the Demons remaining. The survivors realized their terrible error in judgment and now sought to flee the fell apparition. Their brothers lay dead in the ashen dust of the Malebolge as they scurried toward the safety of the burning puts, running in full, inglorious retreat.
Kalyndriel’s bloodlust had not yet been sated, though. There was so much more blood to spill, always more. She flashed in front of fleeing Malebranche, materializing like a dreadful specter of judgment, striking them down without hesitation. Her soul tolled with the mournful peal of cemetery bells, seeing nothing but sin as she branded the wicked. She gloried in exultation and perfect release.
The black lance sang. Barnabas and Walter could hear it now, its awful wail piercing their minds. How hungry and full of wrath it was; it had been betrayed, cast out, and now it was surrounded by damnation. Justice was nothing but a lie, a pleasing bedtime story whispered to children.
Only vengeance. Only obliteration.
Just a single Malebranche remained. It fell to its knees before the Avenging Angel, its head bowed in supplication. Its ruined face was a pathetic thing, and it now sobbed in terror.
“Mercy!” the feeble creature cried. It raised jagged claws in surrender.
At that moment, Barnabas felt a fear such as he had never felt before. It rose like an abyssal sun in his heart, choking his breath: this was it. This was how the Angel fell, and this was how they all died. This was, perhaps, how the world died, its last hope crushed beneath the ungodly weight of uncontrollable wrath. He ducked down and covered his head with his hands, pulling the shaking Arcturus close.
He had no one to pray to.
“Mercy?” Kalyndriel bellowed, incredulous. Her voice was the discordant din of apocalypse, the sound of a thousand souls screaming at once. “You dare speak of mercy? I will teach you of mercy!”
The Angel roared like an unchained beast, raising her lance. It trembled with terrible need, shadow pouring from its ebony length. It began to fall toward the Malebranche’s cowering face, and Kalyndriel’s soul fell with it. She felt her grace slip through her fingers one, final time.
So be it!
In a flash of motion, far faster than any could have imagined, Walter Grey interposed himself between the descending weapon and the Demon. The lance now plummeted towards the professor’s peaceful face. He stared at his impending doom with calm assurance.
The tip stopped inches his face and hung there, vibrating. Kalyndriel’s lips curled into a rabid snarl, her beautiful face now twisted and ravenous. Her eyes were a pitch-black eclipse of hatred, her wings as dark as the depths of the Void. She looked every bit as Demonic as the Malebranche.
“Please,” Walt whispered softly. “Don’t.”
Kalyndriel trembled violently, quivering with unspeakable aggression. The lance began to edge its way slowly toward Walter, so very close. Kaly could not control it, its hunger having grown far beyond her power. The weapon wormed itself inexorably toward the blood it so desired.
“Move, Human!” the black Angel cried desperately. “You must not deny me!”
Walter’s pale, ragged form did not move. His face was resolute. “Paimon believed in you. We all believe in you.”
Barnabas and Arcturus looked up from their cowering crouch, amazed, and they nodded in frenzied agreement.
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. You are better than this temper tantrum; you are better than the monsters that did this to you. Now fucking act like it,” Walter declared.
He gripped the end of the lance and pushed it forcefully away from his face. It seared his hand with oily smoke, but he did not flinch or cry out. Kalyndriel stood trembling before him, her wild eyes utterly mad. She looked down at the screaming lance as though it was a sinuous cobra clutched in her hands.
Kalyndriel knew he was right. She felt humbled by the gentle little man, but her anger did not dissipate. It still raged within her, and it still sang from within the lance. Her weapon was an evil thing, now, echoing the blasted corruption of her own soul. She stared at the perverted mirror of herself with loathing.
Kalyndriel could not let go; she did not know how. She couldn’t do as Paimon had asked, but she would try to hold on, instead. Others depended on her, and she would try to protect them. She would only delay the inevitable, but it was the best she could do.
She would hold on.
With a tormented scream of enormous effort, she reabsorbed the terrifying insanity of her lance. It leapt hungrily into her, rejoining the already overwhelming din of wrath that roared within Kaly’s heart. Its scream became part of her once more. She gasped in shock, collapsing to her knees.
It was too much. It was far too much.
Kalyndriel lost consciousness to the tidal wave of negative energy, falling forward from her knees toward Walter. He caught her in his arms before her head struck the ground, laying her softly down. Her lovely face, wreathed by platinum hair and dusky wings, was at peace. For the time being, at least.
The last Malebranche gawked, disbelieving, and pointed wordlessly at the prone Angel. He then turned and ran swiftly away, thankfully disappearing into the fiery pits of the Malebolge without a trace. Barnabas and Arcturus carefully approached Walter and Kalyndriel, astonished.
Barnabas looked down silently at the unconscious Angel. That had been far too close, and he even felt slightly humbled by Walter’s demonstration of courage. Bravery was not really his thing, true, but he was Demon enough to give others their due.
“That was acceptable, meat-bag,” he acknowledged quietly.
“Thanks,” Walter replied, unoffended. “But we’re not out of the woods yet. She’s still a mess, and we have to get her out of here before she wakes up. This place is poison to her; she’s feeding off its violent nature.”
They saw a soft gray glow illuminating the hazy air nearby, and Barnabas hoped desperately that it was the entrance to Limbo. That fracas and their journey through the ditches had undoubtedly scared off the Malebolge’s inhabitants, but it would only be a matter of time before they returned. They needed to be out of this place before then.
Arcturus beat his tiny wings and rose higher into the air. He looked above the crests of the earthwork berms that ringed their current location, searching for Limbo’s gate. He spotted a
swirling, colorless cloud that lay in the middle of a plateau a few causeways away.
“I see it!” he called down. “It’s right over there!” He pointed a tiny finger triumphantly.
Barnabas and Walter looked at each other, and then looked down at Kalyndriel. They shrugged to one another, bent down, and struggled to pick her up between them. They failed miserably.
“Holy Hell,” Barnabas grunted as the Angel’s weight stubbornly refused to budge. “What is she made of, depleted uranium?”
Walter collapsed, gasping. Kaly was fully armored and far heavier than she looked. “I think,” he said. “We’re going to have to drag her.”
Barnabas nodded sadly. The two of them stood and each grasped the leading edge of one of Kalyndriel’s wings. They were hot to the touch, but Barnabas and Walter held on tightly.
“One, two, three!” Walter called, and with a monumental lurch they slowly began dragging Kalyndriel down the narrow path that Arcturus had indicated.
“Better hurry!” the Imp cried, alarm evident in his voice. “It looks like the Vipers are coming back!”
Barnabas and Walter redoubled their efforts, but they moved laboriously slow. The only thing that kept Barnabas going was the fact that he didn’t want to get shown up by the human again … and he would take great delight in lording this over Kalyndriel’s fat ass. He smiled in pleasurable anticipation.
Walter, to his credit, pulled mightily. He may have been an overweight, old professor in life, and he may be an overweight, disembodied soul in death, but there was little weakness left within him. The Tower had burned that from him, and the essence of his soul was hard and strong. He would not quit.
The two continued to heave and drag the unconscious Angel. Their hands burned from the touch of her wings, and their legs burned from the effort, but they pressed on. They were not making good time, but they kept straining against Kalyndriel’s incredibly dense mass. The silver glow in the hazy air grew stronger as they approached the portal to Limbo. Arcturus desperately urged them on.
Eventually, after what seemed like an interminably long time, they finished their Herculean task. They stood before the swirling entrance to Limbo. It was a roiling cloud of silver mist with impenetrable depths. A cool, moist air seemed to issue from it, and it felt wonderfully refreshing. It promised the respite they so desperately needed, and hopefully the chance for Kalyndriel to collect herself once more.
