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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Jun 2005
Location: Scotland
Gender: Male
Posts: 323
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Fallen Angels
Fallen Angels
Metora spun in the burning waters of the Cursed Lake, falling ever downward. Suddenly he felt air pass over his skin, after all the eons he had been in the Cursed Lake he had almost forgotten its touch. At last! He was free, forgiven for his sins! But no, wait, why did his skin still burn? Of course, what he had done could never be forgiven; the Archangel had merely found a more suitable punishment. He had been banished to the Abyss, the Eternal Punishment. He looked around himself and saw the gibbering demons, horrible, malignant things.
Metora tried to spread his wings and soar into the air, away from these foul, bloated parodies of nature, but was rewarded with blinding pain as the charred stumps that were all that remained of his once beautiful, white, feathered wings moved and jostled his already screaming nerves.
Finally, he dragged himself to his feet and warily surveyed his surroundings. He was half blinded by the foul smelling smoke, but managed to see the towering furnaces, which lit the huge curved cavern that formed the under-city of Pandemonium. Strange, ghoulish shapes flitted about in the smoky, ill-lit recess of the stalagmite-covered roof.
A large demon strode towards him. It stopped in front of him, its purple skin swirling with green and gold patterns, its horns lit with a hellish blue flame, and its shaggy goat legs seeped blood from a dozen infected wounds. Its wings consisted of bones set alight with the same demonic flames as its horns.
The... thing began to laugh. A loud, raucous, malicious roar of a laugh, seeming to mock his very existence.
"Angel," it said, spitting the word like poison. "Welcome to our humble house, holy one" it said sarcastically. The lesser demons began to snigger and whisper taunts at him.
Metora tried to summon the Holy Blade of Fire, to smite this foul demon, but instead, a dark power coursed from his hands and around his body, wracking him with pain.
The demons just laughed all the harder. Eventually the large one ceased his suffering and the lesser demons laughter with a gesture.
"You are one of us now, as soon as the corrupted air touched your lungs it began." he said, with a slightly smug finality, and stalked off to pursue his own means. The little ones dispersed to leave Metora to his fate.
……
Metora hid in the shadows cast by the grotesque statue that dominated the Western Hall. It was an image of the first demon Overlord, Lucifer himself.
Most people didn't realize that the reason there were so many names for the devil was that the rulers of Hell changed very rapidly. Osherva, the current Overlord was the only one who had been able to survive the command more than a couple of years since Lucifer himself, but Metora was trying his hardest to change Oshervas current run of luck. Osherva had humiliated him constantly since his arrival, treating him like a dog.
But he had an assigned an errand to Metora. He had told him to find a certain ceremonial blade, which had been apparently lost in the depths of the Unholy Reliquary.
Metora was surprised that Osherva had given this task to him, after treating Metora like a dog the past few years.
"Find it" he had told him "find it and destroy it and you shall be rewarded."
Metora wondered. It had been a few weeks ago that the conversation had taken place but Metora still puzzled over it, wondering what was so special about this blade. He had suspected that the blade did not exist and the search was merely a way to get rid of him in a time when Osherva felt threatened, and that the blade did not exist; still he had put in a token effort, just to allay Osherva's suspicions. The main word there is 'had'.
For Metora knew something that Osherva didn't. He had found the Scroll of Infinity, a supposedly mythical artifact telling a mysterious section of Hell's history, and the location of the blade.
It sounds a simple matter to find something they knew was in a certain place, but Hell had existed for so long that an eon was just a drop in the bucket. The Unholy Reliquary covered an area the size of Asia, and went down 50 stories, and contained all the possessions and riches of Hell.
However, after weeks of research, he had narrowed his search down to this area, the first part of the reliquary, built in Lucifer's time. Metora proceeded cautiously, with his razor sharp claws extended as no one knew why this area had been abandoned, and no one was in a hurry to find out, as there were strange things in the bowels of Hell, things only capable of basic urges and instincts, but still very dangerous because of their size and power, things that came to be long before Lucifer bound Hell together under one ruler.
As he went deeper and deeper into the reliquary, the passageways became rougher. They had changed from high roofed, airy if slightly fusty passage, with mosaics on the walls to a squat, damp tunnel, made of rough-hewn, bare rock.
Still he pushed on, thinking of how a higher place in Oshervas trust would make his plans all the easier.
...
Osherva mind was on Metora's mission all through the day, as it had been the past few days. He had to concentrate on the recent rebellion, but couldn't. He kept worrying that Metora would figure out that the knife did not exist too soon. Osherva knew it did not exist, as he had searched for it for hundreds of years when he first came to power. He had given the task to Metora to get rid of him for the duration of the current rebellion.
He sighed, and, deciding he couldn't do anything about Metora just know and must simply continue to rule Hell as he had done these past 6 Years. He turned his attention back to what his lieutenants where saying.
"...And so we must strike now!" said Yarut excitedly, thumping the table with his taloned fist. Yarut was a strange looking creature with long black feathers covering his body. He didn't actually look that demonic as such, but he had managed to claw his way to the head of head of the outer regions' armies. The inner regions' armies were theoretically under the direct control of Osherva himself, which was an intelligent tradition for a ruler of an entire world of homicidal maniacs, but in reality was run by Lachlan, his most trusted lieutenant, who was sitting calmly at the other side of the small table set in the middle of the vast council chamber.
Lachlan sighed and shook his head, "We cannot simply attack them, that may provoke other sections to attack the palace, and we simply do not have enough forces to crush the main camp AND defend the palace."
Yarut stood up, "fine, I'll do it myself, with a fraction of my forces." Once he said this he turned round and walked out of the nearly empty council chamber.
Lachlan sighed and relaxed, "I definitely don't trust him." he said, in a much less formal voice.
"I know,” said Osherva, "but we can't get rid of him without risking losing the Outer Regions. They are too loyal too him now."
Lachlan sighed again, "You never should have let him come to power,” he said sadly.
Yarut stomped down the corridor outside the chamber in a great temper. He cursed Lachlan for being so calculating and Osherva for his passiveness and stupidity. As he turned the corner his two guards fell into step with him, their brass armour clanking. Even in his current state Yarut could not help admiring the armour. They really were pieces of art, with great swirling patterns picked out and fine curling script engraved in the trim, the outstanding areas bright as pure gold, the joints made of scales of shining silver.
When he stepped outside, if the immeasurable, sweeping cavern could be called outside, into the heat of the city, he thought how much better he would be at ruling Hell. He shook his head, as if to dislodge the thought and spread his wings to fly off to the Outer Regions.
...
Metora twisted round at the slightest noise, afraid of what lurked down here. He was in the very bowels of Hell, where even the infernal light of the soul-forges could not penetrate the ever-present gloom. Even the light from Metora’s torch did not cut through more than a few feet of the almost solid darkness. He felt as if he was walking through water, as the air was so thick down here.
He came to a corner, and could not tell if it was a new tunnel, or a room. He peered at the wall and saw a marking. Was it...yes! This was it! He ran as fast as he could in this thick air. He gasped. The room swept away from him. On either side of the chamber were vast piles of gold coins, shining swords, be-jeweled necklaces and silver statues. At the end of the chamber was a simple stone plinth. He rushed towards the end, occasionally slowing to admire a particularly beautiful or horrific piece. When he reached it he saw that on top of it was his goal. The blade. Metora glanced down and saw something carved into the plinth. He crouched and looked at the faded, angular lettering.
"Here lies Satan's Blade,” it said.
For a few seconds Metora couldn't breath. When he finally forced some air down his burning throat, he felt as if he was about to be sick. Satan's Blade! The weapon that killed Lucifer, giving Satan the throne! As it had Lucifer's blood on it, it held the awesome power needed to form demons to your will.
The Dark One appeared in the rebel camp with a flash of darkness, extinguishing all the light near him. Amarut walked up to the mysterious figure with his head bowed. He thought how ridiculous this must look from out side, Amarut, a large, muscle-bound, scaled Demon Lord acting subservient to this stick thin-cloaked figure. But Amarut didn't think it ridiculous, not after what had happened to the sentry who tried to attack The Dark One when he first appeared. There was still a ten-metre circle of bloodstain.
Greetings. It annoyed him that the Dark One didn't speak, but merely dropped its whispering, sibilant thoughts straight into his head. "Welcome, Lord." replied Amarut, bowing.
The loyalists are planning an attack.
"An attack, lord?" said Amarut, hoping to procure more information, as the Dark One did not like direct requests.
An attack, they will come at soon, from the west. "Thank you, lord" said Amarut, already scheming how to defeat this attack.
Good said the Dark One before vanishing.
...
Yarut marched in front of the massed ranks of the Outer Regions armies, inspecting their armour. Though they were not the almost unbreakable, beautiful armour of his bodyguards, they would do. Satisfied, he stopped and turned towards his troops. In any other army, this would be the time for an inspirational speech, but this was an army of Hell, so he merely said "any who run will die."
He turned about to face the rebel camp, unfolding his wings as he turned. He beat his wings, propelling him into the air and opened his fanged maw in a blood-curdling banshee howl. He felt the stale air of Hell swirl around him as the winged demons beat their leather wings, and saw the ground convulse as the feet of the infantry pounded the ground.
...
Amarut waited until the infantry were level with his army's hiding places and jumped into the air, beating his huge, burning wings and hurtled towards Yarut.
"THE GENERALS MINE!!" he bellowed in a great, pealing voice.
Yarut spun around to face this new opponent and smiled to himself.
"At last, a fight" he said quietly.
He beat his wings and flew straight at this new enemy, sliding out his talons as he barreled towards Amarut. When they drew close to each other Yarut aimed a slash at Amarut's wings, hoping to send him smashing to the ground, but Amarut folded his wings and twisted so he was flying upside-down beneath Yarut and aimed a blow at him, which would have disemboweled Yarut if he had not been wearing his thick, brass armour. Yarut turned round in mid-air to face Amarut, still surprised at the speed and reactions of the muscle bound demon. He would have to be more careful this time, as he had no doubt that Amarut would be able to strike an unprotected area next time. As they came in for another pass made as if to slash at Amarut's wing again, but turned his cut round at the last moment and landed a backhanded slash on Amarut's unprotected ribs. But, when he did this, Amarut bellowed in pain and slashed Yarut's face, splitting his nose in two and piercing his black orb of an eye.
Yarut spun away blinded with the pain. He shook his head trying to clear the vision in his remaining good eye. As soon as he saw the wounded form of Amarut he bellowed a war cry fuelled by his pain and hurtled towards him. Although they were both injured, Amarut's injury was more debilitating and that gave Yarut an edge. Instead of the usual great, smashing sweep Yarut jabbed his talons forward, putting them a few inches in and then withdrawing them. Amarut howled in anger and attempted to strike Yarut out of the air, but Yarut was circling him too fast, constantly jabbing him. Amarut howled again and dived down, hoping to escape those cruel, jabbing claws. Yarut smiled, he had hoped Amarut would do this.
He followed Amarut and came over the top of him. Amarut realised his mistake, but it was too late, Yarut struck downwards at Amarut's wings with such strength that that Amarut was left with just two bleeding stumps. Amarut's graceful dive turned into a flailing fall as he panicked. Yarut still circled him as he fell, jabbing and slashing, tormenting him in his last moments. Yarut pulled up at the last moment and heard Amarut hit the ground with a satisfying thump.
He beat his wings, spiraling up into the air and looked at the armies, whose gaze turned in unison from the small crater formed by Amarut’s fall up to Yarut.
Yarut threw back his head and let out a piercing shriek.
He lowered his head and gazed at Pandemonium in the distance and said in a quiet voice that somehow still reached the ears of the furthest demon, “You are mine.”
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