Chapter 4

Cae fidgeted in her armor, her hand grasping the whetstone she had been provided – the loud rasp of it drawing along the edge of her flaming sword was almost as loud as the crackle and the spray of sparks that sputtered up as hell forged stone met heaven sent steel. She frowned intently, then twitched her wings, then finally turned to the Baron of Fire, and snarled: “Where are they?”

“They’re coming,” the Baron of Fire said, reclining in the camp stool he had brought for himself. Not for the first time, Cae wished that she might have marched to war against the forces of Destruction with Ruti, gentle Ruti. But that was just it. While she found herself fond of the Baron of Rot – and sometimes, found herself still thinking on all she had seen of him during the preparations for this day – she didn’t want such a kind soul so close to the spilling of blood, the clashing of steel, the dying of immortal souls. She frowned.

“Why did you volunteer again?”

“I’m the closest thing you have to artillery,” Citri said, his voice wry. Amused. “You asked for it.”

Cae had asked for war machines – which would do as they were told. She sighed, rubbing her gauntled knuckles against her chin. “Very well. Hm. You can cast ... what, precisely?”

“Fire,” Citri said, in that nominally demonic way: Unhelpful and imprecise.

“Yes, but is it fireballs, walls of fire, flaming spears, javelins, swords?” Cae snapped. “Do you know how much soul essence it takes, how many motes, it takes for each manifestation?”

Citri shifted in his seat and rolled those bright red-on-black eyes of his. Cae wished badly to dash him from the chair, just to watch the expression on his face shift to outrage. “I suppose singular attacks – a spear, a sword, a bolt of fire – take about one third the energy it takes for something that blankets an area. Making it last longer takes another third in that, and I can make something that blankets an area ... I ... I don’t know, t ... two to ... six times? Seven, it depends on how many villages I am able to tap into, and how hard I am- what are you doing?”

Cae had rummaged into one of the pouches that hung from her layers of armor. She withdrew a small gemstone crystal that she had spent the last afternoon of her logistics expedition crafting. She held it before his brow. “Cast a fire bolt,” she said, firmly.

Citri frowned. “What is this bauble?” he tapped it with his finger, setting the gem to swinging and glowing with a sputtery red light.

“Just do it,” Cae snapped, using her best General Silverhawk voice.

Citri rolled those ruby eyes of his once more – but he forced himself to his feet. Standing at his full, lanky height, he managed to still over-top her, despite the high heels on her armor. He pointed with one long, lean, muscular arm at a distant tree that rose from the hillside that they were encamped on and fired a bolt of sizzling fire that whipped through the air and speared through the tree, leaving a smoking hole in bark. The gemstone throbbed and pulsed as Cae frowned at it, then drew it back down, putting it into the pouch. “Hmm, two motes,” she murmured. When she knelt down, she spread her wings for balance – and gave no care for the fact that her spreading, glowing feathers nearly smacking him in his face. She scrapped at the ground, muttering under her breath.

“What is going on here?” A familiar, feminine voice spoke. Cae glanced up and did a double take – she had expected, somewhat, Laeushale. The suc ... the fire spirit was often used by Citri and Lord Arral equally as a messenger. But it was surprising to see the gentle handed healer that had so eagerly tended to Cae’s wounds dressed in matte black, glossy soulsteel chainmail, her shoulders covered with a pale white tabard with the rook symbol of the House of Ruin on it, the red flame of the Barony of Fire to the upper left. She had a spear in one hand, a shield hanging from her other, both the light make of a skirmisher.

“Laeushale!” Cae sprang up. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m part of the flying auxiliary,” Laeushale said, her voice amused. “Fire rises, and so too, we shall rise above our enemies.” She chuckled. “And like smoke, we shall leave them little to sink their teeth into. What’s that?” She nodded to the half finished mathemantic equation. Cae sighed, then looked down at the etched runes. She had done enough to figure the whole in her head. She still frowned for a moment, fully considering it.

“You can fire your area of effect attacks three times, precisely,” she said.

Citri crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m a Baron of Fire, you can’t measure me like that-”

“I surely can,” Cae snapped, turning to face him. “You will fire three times because the rest of the motes I have available for this battle are going to be spent elsewhere. Once the-”

More rustling wings. Sounds of footsteps. The two jerked her attention away from Citri, and she felt a bloom of relief. The army had begun to arrive. The demons came in drips and drabs over the next two hours, better than a mortal army might have, but worse than an angelic host could have. The primary forces had been levied from Despair and Fire’s domains, with Rot being left untouched for the moment. This meant the majority of her ground forces were solemn halberdiers and speardemons, draped with black cloths to conceal their faces, their bodies shrouded by misting fog of blue and green that spoke of deep sadness. Behind them were archers that looked like women in mourning gowns, who carried not bows but were instead surrounded by a haze of glittering teardrop shards that had a sharp edge to them – deceptively sharp, despite the smoothness of their shapes. The Barony of Fire had levied quite a few Fire Spirits like Laeushale, forming a solid core of flying skirmishers.

In total, it was a paltry force for any mortal invasion and demonic attack beyond Hell. Glancing at Citri, Cae arched an eyebrow. He scowled at her. “This is a normal force, for Hell,” he said. “When in Hell. I’m going to check and make sure everyone’s here.”

He stalked off before Cae could take that task on her own hands. She scowled after him.

“That ... arrogant braggart!” she said, angrily. “He acts as if he is doing me a favor, just to assist me with fighting enemies that have taken his own lands! After his people kidnapped me to be their general! Argh!” She turned to face Laeushale, who had stuck the black tip of her spear into the ground to free her hand – but it was not for consolation or to simply wipe her sweating, red brow. No, it was to cover her mouth as her shoulders shook and, tabard or no, her chain-mail clinked.”

Are you laughing at me?” Cae asked.

“Oh, no, General Silverhawk!” Laeushale said, laughing quite clearly. “I was just wondering, when did you plan to kiss Baron Citri?”

“Kiss!?” Cae spluttered, feeling as if she had been smacked in the cheek by a drawn glove. She stepped away, gestured to the smoldering, blackened patches of ground that Citri’s feet had left as he stalked away. “Kiss that? That blowhard?” She asked.

“It’s just you two seem to arouse quite a passion in one another,” Laeushale said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “In a proper story, you’d be all over one another, once the adrenaline of the battle hits.”

Cae crammed that mental image into the same deep, dark hole she kept memories of Ruti’s naked body, speculations about Lord Arral’s true form beneath his shadowy robes, memories of her intense dreams, and how Laeushale’s massage had made her feel. Instead, she growled quietly. “I do not have a passion for that ... that ... red skinned, whip tailed, flame headed, smoke addled... tomcat!”

“Mmhm! Yes General, of course, General,” Laeushale said, nodding and nodding again, with every word. “Of course you do not.”

Cae sighed. She pushed her blush off her cheek then turned to Laeushale. “Are you in command of the flame spirits?”

“Yes, General,” Laeushale said, her voice more official. More serious now.

Cae nodded, firmly. “Good.” Her lips quirked up. “I have an order for you.”

In what had once been the village of Lamerum, the demons of Pillage were having the best time they had had in quite some time. The Baron of Pillage, for all he served the Lord of Destruction himself, had not gotten much chance to wreak his favorite pastime upon a soul in Hell. With the Endless War in a perpetual state of shifting lines, attacks, defenses, encirclement and sieges, he was perpetually drawn away from Hell and into the front lines, where his demons were unto Legion ... and his prizes were so ... frustratingly mundane.

If a human army that called upon his spirits overthrew and sacked a city, what would they do?

Oh, they would ravage it, as they were wont to do. They would burn the idols of enemy gods, they would melt down jewelry and gold, and turn it into bars for easy transport. They would find gemstones, prying them from the fingers of dead nobles. They would find the beautiful and the helpless and they would take their base, wicked pleasures in whatever method their culture found most diabolical. And he would drink ... and drink...

And taste the same old thing. The same drought that he had pulled upon, time and time again, as the Endless War waxed and waned. Mortals simply had no imagination, they always built under the absurd constraints of logic, rationality, and time. Demons, though, could be creative ... and the souls corrupted and drawn to hell could be just as creative. Lamerum had been constructed to appear at all times as if it was burning and falling to pieces – thatched roofs flickered with orange light and sparks whistled through the air. Before his army had come, the souls dwelling here had danced among the fires, caressing the wood, pressing their bodies into what was structure and sustinance alike, delighting in the ever spreading, ever burning glory of fire.

And so, Purthi watched with undisguised delight as his red scaled, cackling demons cast water upon the thatched roofs. Steam hissed into the air and two souls that crackled with sparks came rushing out, screaming and throwing themselves to their knees. “Please, don’t!” The female one begged, but another water pail was tossed and yet more steam rose as the flames went out. The demons, though, were not finished. Other homes had been damped out and the demons of Destruction were at work, cackling as they threw up crude scaffolding. Already, some were working to lay fresh, undamaged bales of hay as makeshift thatching onto the roofs, while others were hammering boards onto burnt, warped wood. Their construction was just as ramshackle as anything in the Realm of Destruction, but it was still enough to reduce some souls to horror as they watched their homes being desecrated.

“Ahhhh, this is what makes Hell worth while,” Purthi said, his grin wicked indeed. He had faint memories of being part of Arral’s household ... faint memories indeed, now, which dimmed and dimmed by the moment as his eyes fell on the dampened flame spirits that made up this home. His yellow finger, tipped with a claw of dripping blood, thrust at a buxom woman with flame hair and flame skin and smoke colored eyes. “Her.”

Two sneering demons sauntered over, grabbing the woman and dragging her to her feet. She went limp, terror filling her eyes.

Purthi sneered as he leaned on his right hand, knuckles curled, bloody fingernails dripping down yellowy skin, cocking his horned head. “Your village is my village now,” he murmured. “Your soul belongs to me.”

She nodded, mutely, her eyes wide, smoke trickling down her cheeks, like tears.

“That means, you must comport yourself... properly,” Purthi said. “Take this blade.” He reached down with his left hand and drew the obsidian blade – knapped and crude, it had been the first knife to be plunged into the first mortal’s heart as he begged for his home to be kept intact in the face of the victorious. He tossed it down to the soul’s feet. “Pick it up.”

Shaking, her hands closed around the blade. She stood, trembling, as the demons to either side of her sneered and chuckled.

“Now, pillage,” Purthi said, chuckling wickedly. “Surely, there’s someone here that ... has what you want. Plunge the knife into their heart. Take it. Take it all.” His eyes flashed.

“I-I won’t do it!” The soul whispered. “I’m the flame. I burn – I don’t-”

“Do it!” Purthi leaned forward. “Or will douse you in water! I will build a body of rocks for you! Rocks and mud and dead things!”

The soul flinched. Her hands closed tightly around the blade, keeping it held fast to her chest, the hard stone dimpling her skin – sending sparks whirling up. But as Purthi leaned in, smirking, he was annoyed to hear a rustle of wings and a thump as one of his flying scouts dropped down to his right. He craned his head around ... and grinned as he saw the eager, glittering expression in his scout’s eyes.

“Baron of Plunder, my liege-self and honored personage ... I bring tidings. The Realm of Ruin has sent forth their paltry force. A scant hundred of speardemons and some ranged flingers, but no sign of fliers.” His scout bowed low, spreading one wing wide in triumph.

“Fantastic!” Purthi said, then smirked down at the flame-soul that still clung to her knife. “We shall continue this after your rescuers are dispersed.” He hauled himself to his feet, his bulk – thick muscle over bountiful fat, glutted from countless conquests – and then hefted up his war ax. He let the heavy weapon rest upon his shoulders as his cloven feet split the brownish ground before him, each thundering impact shaking the earth itself. He emerged from the captured village to see that the army was just as his scout had described it – save for one detail. He thrust one finger out, blood droplets winking like ruby tears to the ground. “That’s the heaven-bitch that Lord Arral stole for himself, eh?”

The figure he saw was distant and glinting, bright gold in heavy armor that looked like it should have weighed as much as mountain – but she moved with grace and alacrity, shouting orders to her black clad troops. Banners of the Lord of Ruin’s realm flew above the small army as they fanned out and took position within bowshot. Purthi snorted loudly, crossing one arm over his chest, the other still gripping his war-ax. “Get the troops away from their pillage. Keep us in the village – I think she plans to pelt us some.”

His sergeants went to bawl out their orders – some having to brawl their orders, punching demons that would have preferred to keep feasting on the misery of the townsfolk – and soon, his much larger army had fanned throughout the village, clustering near buildings to use them as cover against the arrows that were soon to begin pelting down on the village. Without delay, a horn blatted in the distance and the archers of the House of Despair began to wail out their mournful battle cries. The sounds caused the glass shards hovering around them to vibrate in sympathy, then whip out, arcing up and diving down towards the village. They slashed into burning wood, shattered in thatch with sprays of sparks, and thunked into shields. Not a single demon cried out in pain or agony.

Purthi nodded slowly.

“Shall we stoop upon them?” his flying sergeant hissed, eagerly.

“No ... that angel bitch is clever,” Purthi said. “She has a flying force, I know it. We must bait it out.”

The next volley of singing glass came down. Then the next. The third caught a demon by sheerest luck – slipping past a shield and shattering into his face. Shrieking, the beast fell, thrashing and twitching. Into the opening, a ruby red bead of light swept, then exploded. This scooped an entire chunk of the line apart, sending demons screaming, some arcing up into the air, to come crashing down with hideous splats and crunches. Purthi jerked and snarled.

“Damn their eyes!” He lashed out with his hand, snatching a seeing eye glass from his flying sergeant’s hip and pressing it to his own bilious orb. Up close, he could see that the svelt figure standing beside the war-angel was Baron Citri himself – and the gold-plated cow was using him to best effect. Purthi’s shields were enchanted, to ward off fire ... it was an aspect as Baron of Pillage. Those that sought to pillage and rape their way across a world used fire as much as anything else – and so, his shields shimmered with that light. But if a single gap in the line appeared...

He frowned. Still no sign of the fliers.

Another volley.

Another.

Their archers seemed to have no limit on the glass shards they were singing into the air, but Purthi felt his own demons growing ire. No infantrydemon enjoyed being shot at – though this was a fair sight better than artillery. Purthi frowned, then bellowed new orders. “Shields together! Form a line and march out! Fliers ... stoop once we have formed! If I hear you flapping before, I will flay the skin from your bones!”

The flying sergeant snarled and gnashed his teeth – but he remained still as the infantrydemons stomped from the village. Another volley came in as they moved, shattering into shields and crashing apart with shards of glass exploding from each impact. One demon fell again – but the demons locked their shields together in a hurry, managing to do so just before the fire bolt came in. The ruby red bead struck and rebounded, leaping into the air, then dropping down and exploding into the brown grass ahead of them. The crater smoked and Purthi grinned, fiercely.

The pillagers started to advance, flowing around the crater with the ease of long practice as more glass projectiles landed – but their time was limited. The fliers were taking to the wing and as they soared forward, Purthi saw that he was right: The angel-bitch had her fliers hidden ... and they were quite a pathetic amount, no more than ten or twenty. They tried to screen the air above them, but the more heavily armed and armored fliers that Purthi had at his disposal sent them scattering in a panicky hurry, the flame spirits managing to disengage with only a few harmed, none slain.

“We own the skies now!” Purthi shouted. “Charge!”

The infantrydemons rushed as the fliers stooped.

The Despair demons that were manning the front line held firm, their spears glittering as they shifted and moved into a new formation – a hedgehog of bristling points. They drew back and Purthi saw that they had actually established themselves in a natural little choke point, with thick forests to the left, and razorvine patch to the right. No matter. He had the numbers and the skies. He took the front of the line, shouldering past several of his demons, his war-ax grasped in his hand, swinging left, then right, sending halberd and spear tips sundering into the air, splintering wood and shattering steel. He stepped into the empty space, laughing and bellowing.

“They’re at our mercy! Cut them down!”

The line wavered ... but did not break. Purthi lifted his ax up, about to bring it down upon the back of a desperate infantrydemon’s head – and blazing flame sprang to life between the demon and his blade. The sound of hellsteel meeting heaven forged sword was resounding, loud enough to echo throughout the scream and clamor of the battlefield. Despite having two fliers on her back, both of them clawing and slashing at her plate armor, the war-angel had flashed across the field and interposed herself between Purthi and his prey.

Her face, half concealed by her helm, had a wry little smile on it.

For some reason, that smile filled Purthi was a sense of fear – had he made a mistake?

Then he had to focus upon the moment to moment of the battle. He jerked aside, turning a blow that could have cloven him from groin to gullet into a graze that sparked off his armor, then brought his massive war-ax around, using the haft in the same way some mortal wizard might use a quarterstaff. A blade and a blunt staff, locked together as the war-angel threw her impressive weight and might into the lock, sending Purthi skidding backwards, hooves kicking up dirt. He snarled. “So, what did Lord Arral offer you, to sway your heart to evil?”

“I don’t do this for him,” the angel said back, her voice as wry as her canted lips.

“You do this for no one!” Purthi shoved back. She allowed herself to be pushed – her wings spread wide, cupped the air, their motion batting the fliers off her back. She beat them once and smoothly slid backwards, then landed a dozen feet away, leaving the space between them cleared. “You have no fliers! No support!”

She swept her sword up and down, carving a flier in half with one stroke, parrying a spear-thrust with the other.

“Neither do you,” she said, smirking.

A screeching sound was the only warning that Purthi had before his sergeant of fliers dropped and smashed into his shoulder. The immense demon grunted, head jerked hard to the side, for his horns flared wide enough that the falling flier managed to impale himself upon one of the spikes while snapping his spine against the heavy red steel of Purthi’s armor. Purthi bellowed, grabbing onto the flier and wrenching him free through brute strength, chain links bursting and scattering as gore splattered onto his cheek, blazing hot.

Around him, all his other fliers were falling – their wings deadened. But how!?

The war-angel flung herself into the attack, her grin wicked now. “You never read mortal books, do you, oh Baron!” Her blade flashed, again and again. Sparks exploded as Purthi parried each blow, grunting as he used his war-ax for defense and nothing else. Each blow sent him stumbling backwards. “I do! They have learned birds do not fly as we do, by magic – they fly with the mere strength of their wings. Did you really think those wings could suspend your creatures alone? No! They fly as I do, with magic!”

“But ... but-”

“My fliers are, even now, shattering your connections to the two villages within the Lord of Destruction’s boarder!” The war-angel chuckled. “They can’t hold the lines. They cannot occupy them!” She brought her sword up, holding it in both hands. “But they can cut you off!”

Her sword came down and, with a roaring explosion like the world coming to a cataclysmic end, Purthi’s deadly war-ax, the ax which had been named the Reaper of Souls by mortal men, was shorn in half with a spray of splinters and a cracking sphere of reddish energy, which swept outwards, knocking his demons to their backs, sending their own shields flying from their arms as the concussive force seemed to ripple through the war-angel’s own army without a ruffled hair, without a buckle out of place. She slammed her foot down on his wrist, then shouted over her shoulder.

“Citri! Now!”