CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MOR'DENAA
What was left of the Hammer and the Blade were formed up in ranks facing the towering, hideous palace of Mor'denaa. Archers were stationed on all sides, ready for any surprise, but Mercius knew that the only threat that still lived was in the confines of the twisted sculpture of a building before them.
Griffin and Mercius stood side by side at the head of their legion, gazing earnestly up the stairway with their marshals at their backs. Mercius' eyes could detect two sentinels at the top of the steps guarding the only entrance to the place: statues at least fifty feet tall and formed into wicked, winged gargoyle-type things.
Mercius turned to Darius and said, “Have the troops drink and eat whatever water and food we have, and catch their breaths. Send out a dozen of the fastest runners to bring Keira and her healers here to help those who can be helped. Then make ready. We storm this place in five minutes.” Darius responded with a nod, and the order was carried out without hesitation. The men and women behind Mercius stirred, and some drank from canteens that were hung at their sides.
The Hammer and the Blade had suffered tremendous casualties, but those remaining were hardened and ready for anything; especially death.
When the troops had rested, Darius nodded to Mercius, who signaled immediately to follow him up the towering steps. He trod up them steadily and gave a slight wince at the sound of dying men and demons on the field below him.
He reached the landing at the top of the steps after nearly fifteen minutes of climbing, and stood facing the massive metal doors. Meaning to walk up to them and pound his fist against them, Mercius took a step forward. The statues that stood above him surprised him by stepping in unison in front of him, barring his way. Taking a step back, he looked at them again and reassessed their nature: they appeared to be statues, but they had moved!
Knowing by the look of the hulking giants that no blade could harm their stone flesh, he raised his voice into the air: “Come forth, Mor'denaa, and receive the punishments that you deserve!”
The air was silent after the echoes of his voice faded away. It seemed that the legion at his back held their breath in anticipation.
Finally, Mercius could take no more silence, and summoned the Arka within him, gathering it into a powerful fist that he would send against the door.
“Be ready for anything,” he said under his breath to Griffin. His friend nodded grimly, and Mercius could feel the power building in him as well.
Suddenly there came a wicked laughter. Mercius was unsure from whence it came, until he craned his neck to look upward. The stone statues before him were the source of the evil sound which emanated from them both with a discord that sent a chill down Mercius' spine. It was an ugly and disheartening sound, but it didn’t fit the giants: it was Mor'denaa’s laughter, being channeled through the effigies.
It spoke, its voice clear, and carrying within it the sound of plague and rot and death: “If you turn back now, Mercius, I will grant you an hour to escape before I hunt you like the frightened pigs that you are.”
Anger rose in Griffin at the sound of the all-too-familiar voice. Mercius could feel his hate boiling off of him, and could smell his rage. “Hunt us?!” Griffin shouted, animosity and disdain running through his voice like venom through a vein. “Look around you, you evil cunt! Your precious prison has been taken, and we mean to destroy you as well. Now come out and face us with whatever dignity was bred into your wretched soul!”
Again, the laughter came. This time more subtle. “Ah, Griffin,” came the voice from the twin giants above them. “You were always full of hot air and weak passion. Now, I see, you have added hollow threats to your list of pitiful characteristics. The guardians before you alone could crush your entire company, such feeble things that you are. Be gone, now, while I still let you have your head start! Otherwise I will kill you all now and bathe in your blood.”
“Enough of this!” Griffin said in a growl. He cast his hand upwards, toward the center of one of the stone beasts in front of him, and unleashed the Arka. Mercius, a split second later, knowing that it would be now or never, did the same. The two giants suffered devastating damage, with large portions of their torsos exploding outward in shards of stone and chunks of living gore that splattered wetly on the stones of the steps and the disgusted troops. They were not destroyed, however, and one of them swung downward with its enormous javelin. Mercius had just enough time to push Griffin away from him before he rolled away himself, the javelin smashing into the place where the two of them had just been standing. He was not entirely sure that his friend still lived when he regained his feet and sent another burst of power at the statue closest him. This time, its head exploded in the same shower of stone and sickness as had its torso. Its enormous stone body fell sideways slowly from the top of the steps, crashing to the bloodied earth far below.
Mercius, feeling invigorated by the power that flowed out of him, leapt nimbly onto the second giant and climbed in leaps and bounds, with a speed that was beyond the match of any mere human, to the top of the remaining stone beast. Pushing as much of the Arka as he could muster into Illuricht, he swung it down upon the things head, which exploded violently, sending him shooting back and down, into the mass of troops assembled on the stairs. The weight of his fall toppled a ring of men as he landed on them.
Climbing to his feet, Mercius rushed back up the steps to where Griffin lay, bleeding from his forehead. “I’m fine,” Griffin said, before Mercius could ask. The black man swept his palm across his forehead and looked at the blood smeared there before continuing with a grin: “Just not as quick as you are. I’ll have to work on that.” Mercius helped him to his feet.
They looked again at the enormous doors that were now their only obstacle between them and their hate. Surprising them both, the doors swung noisily inward without the pair so much as touching them.
From the darkness that gaped behind the open doors, Mor'denaa’s eerie, screeching voice came: “Come, then, and meet your doom.”
Without hesitation, Mercius and Griffin, as one, rushed through the doors, swords in hand, followed closely by their troops.
There were no enemies to confront, however, only a vision from a twisted nightmare. The room in which they stood was enormous, stretching farther than they could see in all directions, including upward. From the ceiling of the place, lost from view, red lightning danced down, illuminating the blackness of the great cavernous space and stopping fifty feet short of the stone floor. Pillars stood around the cavern, disappearing into the distance, each covered with the forms of the dead, forever trapped in silent screaming rigidity. The smell was wretched: week-old corpses and gangrenous wounds. There was an ever-present sound of a howling wind, but they could feel no breeze upon their faces.
Cautiously, with no idea what would come, Mercius and Griffin led the Hammer and the Blade deeper into the palace.
“Come,” the wind whispered to them in her voice. It was ghastly and terrifying, but ever so enticing. They crept deeper and deeper into the gloom, until the light from the doorway through which they had entered was a pin-prick of grey light in the distance behind them.
As they walked, there came to them a sound of screaming, very slight at first, but growing in intensity and volume rapidly, until it became a chorus of keening wails that sent terror spiraling into their hearts. It was the sound of a million painful deaths, and the source was the pillars that surrounded them. Mercius could see the reliefs in the stone squirming in agony, unable to break free, but permitted to howl with terror and pain. He shivered in the darkness, but kept moving forward, steeling his mind against whatever was to come. He could feel the fear in the men and women at his back, and the man at his side.
Seeing Mercius unaffected by the terrifying sound heartened his troops, and they continued to follow, shutting away the feeling that resided in each of their hearts that they would soon die, or
, worse, be imprisoned in stone to scream for an eternity. They pushed ever onward, following a man who had somehow transformed himself into much more than a man, into a presence, into a fearless wall of will and determination.
And so, onward they marched, weapons at the ready. They marched upward, though none knew it: the gradient was too slight and subtle, but they were marching uphill towards some unknown fate that waited in the blackness. They marched for what seemed like an eternity, and, indeed they started to flag. Their legs weakened and throbbed, and their minds grew fragile from the strain of constant vigilance and fear.
When all but the strongest were thoroughly weakened and horrified beyond any fear they had ever felt, the landscape around them changed. The red lightnings from high above became less frequent until, slowly, they disappeared altogether. The pillars grew sparse, and eventually disappeared, leaving only the screaming coming from behind them. All gave a sigh of relief at this horror finally passing. The floor beneath their feet turned from hard, rough stone to squishy, stinking mud. Things seemed to move in the mud, but they could not pin them with their eyes. Every time one looked to a suspected scurrying just below the surface of the black mud, it vanished, as if it were merely a trick of the mind.
Then, their fears were given physicality: the mud creatures grew fingers that groped and slid up feet and legs. Mercius was suddenly aware of the legion at his back screaming and yelping in surprise as bony, mud-blackened fingers clutched feebly at their feet and clothes. Whenever someone placed a dagger in the wretched hands, the point slid smoothly into nothing but muck, as if the things had no substance. Indeed, Mercius knew that this was exactly the case.
Without slowing his already meager pace, he said loudly and confidently: “Put aside your fear, men. It is only a trick. I have seen this before, and these wraiths cannot harm you. They are only a paltry illusion meant to weaken your resolve. Do not give in to her child’s play!”
His advice worked its way slowly into the hearts of the troops, and eventually they were able to shut out the crawling things, until, accepting defeat, they slipped back into the mud.
Then came the light. It was distant and feeble at first, but grew closer faster than they walked, its flickering glow casting shadows in the nothingness that surrounded them.
Finally, the source of the light confronted them and forced them to stop. It was a vast lake, its shores lost in the distance to either side, and the entire thing was aflame with dancing blues and reds and oranges, suffused with the unnatural blackness of evil that kept the flames alive. Across the great distance, Mercius could see a figure, tiny from this distance, atop a throne. Mor'denaa. He placed his hand into the flame before him and brought it back out quickly. The flame was real, and had left its oily burn on the palm of his hand. He knew instantly what this was. Mor'denaa had, in her pride and vanity and power, created this massive lake of fire for her minions. All who wished to speak to her must first pass the test of pain and flame.
Mercius told Griffin this quietly, as well as pointing out the demon mistress on her throne in the distance. He nodded his understanding and said, “Well, what do we do?”
Mercius just shook his head, and furrowed his brow, thinking. Finally, with a sigh, he raised his voice to be heard over the slithering flames: “Mor'denaa! Enough of your games. Meet us face to face, and be done with your childish nonsense.”
The laughter that came from her was all too familiar, and now held a note of slimy ugliness from passing through the fire between them. “Come, Mercius, swim in my pond. If you can make it to this shore, then I will let you live. You will be my toy to play with when I am bored.”
Mercius, becoming ever more angry and filled with hate, was slowly suffused with evil, as this place permeated his soul. He had always felt the darkness in him; the wicked half of his blood; but had been able to keep it at bay for a decade. Now, however, it threatened to well up into him and take control. He knew that if this happened, he would slaughter mercilessly any who were near him, including his friends. He struggled momentarily to keep his darkness inside of him, locked in a dungeon within his soul, and won the battle. He could still feel its sickness under his skin, but he was in control.
Now, feeding off of his darkness and hate, he spoke in the demon tongue. It was rough and harsh, more snarls and snapping of teeth than any formulated words, and the troops at his back let out a gasp.
“Come to me, sister,” he said in the guttural language, “and feel my wrath. Your reign is at an end, little one, and I bid you return to Hell.”
Mercius could feel the effect of his words immediately. Mor'denaa stood from her throne in her fury, and cast her hate at them. With her hate came pain. He felt it in his chest and his bones, as if his joints were being twisted violently, his ribs squeezed together, his skull detaching itself from his face, his spine stretching out of shape. The pain crumpled him, and the scream of agony died on his lips, his body not having the strength to push it out.
The pain didn’t subside, or even decrease; it twisted steadily in his wracked body with ferocity. But Mercius slowly, painfully, got to his feet, willing his body to respond. Willing himself to overcome the agony. He looked around and saw that all present were affected by Mor'denaa’s torture, and were reeling and squirming in the black mud, unable to utter even a whimper. Mercius cursed Mor'denaa loudly in the demon tongue.
She laughed her wicked laughter, and the pain continued.
Suddenly, Mercius felt a twinge of something else. It wasn’t pain, this, it was a release of pressure; just enough to take the edge off the agony, so that the tortured men and women at his back were able to scream their pain. The cacophonous sound echoed through the blackness around them, and the flames of the lake danced wickedly in delight, feeding on the screams of the tortured.
Mercius, wondering where this release was coming from turned around. Over the twisting bodies of his men, he saw, faintly in the distance, a white light, pushing away the darkness around it. It came steadily closer, and as it did, the pain that was wrought through limbs and veins decreased. He could feel dismay emanate from the other side of the lake: Mor'denaa was not pleased with this apparition, whatever it was.
Mercius watched the approach of the light, his heart swelling in his chest even as the agony faded into memory. He dared not hope, but there was the light, coming ever closer.
When it reached the rear of the troop, who now stood on their feet, eyes wide and mouths agape, they parted for it. As the light came closer, Mercius allowed himself hope, and happiness: it was Nephilia, silvery white light streaming from her hair and her skin.
She stopped between Mercius and Griffin, each with a small smile on their faces, and placed her hands on their shoulders. The three of them gazed across the lake of fire silently. Mor'denaa was silent as well, but the hate and fear coming off of her Mercius could feel like a hot wind.
Nephilia’s voice was musical and clear when she spoke, and carried easily to the demon that was barely visible across the distance: “Mor'denaa, your time is up. It has been written, and so it shall be. Surrender yourself to your fate, as you know you must.”
“Never!” Mor'denaa replied in the demon tongue. “These feeble souls will whimper for death by the time I am through with them! Be gone, Nephilia! You have no place here, and no right. This is not your world.”
Nephilia sighed deeply, a curiously human gesture from one as divine in presence as she. “Very well,” she said in a whisper.
Serenity on her face, Nephilia closed her eyes and lifted her arms, palms toward the broiling fire before her. Mercius felt a strange power come from her, though he could not tell what it was, and had no hope of ever duplicating something so purely good. Slowly, wave by wave, the fire was quenched, its reds and oranges and blues diminishing to nothingness, and finally the evil black veins, reluctant to give in, fell into the murky, slashing water.
Mor'd
enaa let out a fierce shriek, knowing that her power had been overcome. Nephilia turned to Mercius and Griffin and said, “Come, you two. We do battle with the demon. Leave your troops. They have no power over her.”
With that, Nephilia boldly, fearlessly stepped into the teeming waters of the lake. Mercius and Griffin hesitated. “Come,” she said, with a twinkling smile on her painfully beautiful face. “It is shallow, and it cannot harm you.” Sharing a quick glance and shrug, the pair walked into the water. It was warm and sickly, but came only to their ankles, and, other than turning their stomachs slightly, did them no harm.
Mor'denaa stood, watching and pacing back and forth in front of her massive throne. She was very obviously agitated.
Mercius, under his breath, asked Nephilia, “What is our plan? What can we do against her? I can feel her strength.”
Nephilia said, “She and I are evenly matched in power in this place. If she were in my realm, she would be a child before a powerful storm, and, likewise, I would be powerless against her in her natural element, but here, we are on equal footing.” She paused, contemplating as they sloshed through the water. Nephilia continued: “Mor'denaa and I will be locked in battle. It is then that you must strike, both of you, with all the strength that you possess. Surprise her as much as you can, and keep your minds blank. If you plan your moves, even in your heads, she will find you out and turn her evil on you. You must be swift, and strike with confidence.” That was all she said, and Mercius was unsure if he had the strength of will to follow through with the rudimentary plan.
Finally, the trio stepped out of the water, onto the callused stone on which Mor'denaa’s throne sat. The demon ceased her pacing, and stared into Nephilia’s eyes with utter hate and disdain. Up close, Mercius could finally make out Mor'denaa, and she was just as heinous as Griffin had described her; worse, in fact, because Mercius could feel the evil boiling through her veins.
Her skin was that of her slaughtered victims, and it writhed upon her, emanating a feeble wail of torture. The dreadlocks on her head, likewise, writhed and screamed distantly. Her eyes, with their deep, raging fire, were blackness, and from them, purest evil and hate. Her cunt shone with an ugly, milky light.
The demon, in her infinite rage at Nephilia’s presence, let out a wicked roar, her mouth stretching open much wider than should have been possible, and filled with row upon row of black fangs.
Nephilia only smiled in response to this childish outburst, and stood, calmly facing her nemesis.
Mor'denaa shouted at Nephilia, paying no attention whatsoever to Mercius and Griffin as they stood watching: “Begone, you foul bitch!” she yelled. “You have no power here, and yours is a lost cause. Leave these pathetic mortals to their fate!”
“You know full well what power I have in this place, demon,” Nephilia replied, still calm, her voice as sweet and musical as ever. “I may not be able to crush you as I would like, but you will be defeated. I give you one last chance to return to the darkness that bore you, and never trouble this realm again. Go now, and you will not suffer at my hands.”
A cackling witch laughter bubbled from the cavernous depths of Mor'denaa’s throat. Then, without warning, she struck. Nephilia, for all her strength and beauty, was not prepared, and was sent flying back into the tumultuous lake behind her, struck by an invisible blow. Even while the glowing figure was still in the air, Mercius struck Mor'denaa with all the might of the Arka that he could summon. A split second later, Griffin added his substantial force, and the three were immediately locked in battle. Mercius felt the twisting and stretching pain enter his limbs again, but this time he was strong and prepared. He refused to give in to the torture that threatened to tear him apart. Instead, he cast the strength within him into the writhing demon before him, who cried out fiendishly in surprise and dismay: the humans were stronger than she had anticipated.
From the corner of his eye, which was squinted in pain and concentration, Mercius could see Griffin had fallen to his knees, and was crying out in agony. The Arka still flowed from him intensely, though. Mor'denaa was just as strong as Mercius and Griffin combined, but she had used a great deal of her might to smite Nephilia, and she was flagging. Mercius felt the veins of Mor'denaa’s evil sinking into his brain and his bone, and he fought her off with every ounce of his strength and will.
The battle of invisible power seemed to go on forever, and Mercius was losing his will: he felt the evil inside of him calling to Mor'denaa, and trying to join her force. He knew that if he allowed that to happen, she would crush first Griffin, then Nephilia, and then himself. The darkness that he harbored was the small push that the demon needed to defeat the trio, and Mercius fought it with every breath, feeling himself losing the battle slowly: Mor'denaa was simply too strong and wrathful.
Then, to his horror, Mercius felt Griffin’s strength collapse. It was a weakening that he felt all around him, as he lost consciousness, and the Arka ceased to flow from him. Mercius saw the fiendish smile spread across Mor'denaa’s face; she knew that she had won the battle, for Mercius alone was not powerful enough to overcome her might.
Knowing that this was the end, Mercius sent the last of his reserves of strength against the smiling, wretched demon. It wiped the smirk from her skin-wrapped face, but did nothing toward sealing his victory. With one final, mighty push of the Arka through himself, Mercius collapsed, defeated. He, unlike Griffin, maintained awareness, and saw Mor'denaa’s entire body relax ever so slightly, and he knew what would come next: she would walk up to him and rip him apart, probably devouring his flesh and bathing in his blood. He only hoped that he would have death instead of enslavement. He could not bear to be held captive again, after all the years of darkness he had endured.
The smile had returned to the demon’s face, and she approached slowly on her taloned claws. Mercius, covered in sweat, was hit with agony as the pains of the battle he had waged all day came crashing home, finally making themselves known to his nerves.
Mor'denaa grabbed Mercius by the throat and lifted him off his feet so she could peer into his eyes. He was losing breath quickly, and the darkness of the cavernous place was slowly enveloping his vision, dancing with bright lights as his brain starved for blood and air.
The pressure on his windpipe tightened as Mor'denaa crushed his life out, slowly and with pleasure written across her demonic features. “Pathetic,” she said in a scornful whisper, like a serpent in dry leaves. And Mercius agreed with her. For all his lofty but unreachable goals, he was nothing but a weak sack of bone and blood before the towering might of the demon before him and all of her ilk.
Mercius agreed with Mor'denaa's assessment of him, and waited for the end.
Then, suddenly, her arm was wrenched from its body, and Mercius dropped heavily to the ground. With a terrible shriek she looked down at her severed limb, dripping black blood and yellow pus. Mercius pried the hand away that was still gripping his throat, refusing to admit that it was now useless and shriveling. He turned to see Nephilia, wet and exhausted, striding toward the demon. Mor'denaa was too stunned to even realize that her nemesis approached, and far too preoccupied with her disfigurement. Nephilia was thereofore unnoticed by the demon, and was within two paces of her when she thrust her hands toward Mor'denaa. There was a blue ethereal smoke that shot from her fingertips, and, for the second time in mere moments, Mor'denaa let out a pathetically horrific wail. The skin that writhed on the demon’s body suddenly halted and, slowly, melted from her, forming a pool of flesh on the stone floor that bubbled and smoked, and quickly evaporated into the darkness above. The slaves that had been imprisoned for so long as Mor'denaa’s flesh were now free.
Mercius looked to the demon. She was truly naked now, and the sight was appalling. The parody of a skeleton shone through black and red muscle, its bones distorted and twisted and yellowed. The muscle seemed not to be attached, and slithered like maggots acros
s what could only be called her ribcage. Nephilia said, in a quiet, pained voice, that sounded as if it took all the will of the heavens and the earth to summon, “Your time is finished, sister.” And with that, Mor'denaa was lit aflame from within, the purple and orange fire dancing in the cavernous depths of her throat and casting shadows inside her body. With stunning quickness and heat, the flames escaped the demon and consumed her entirely. The burning, writhing demon lashed out with her remaining, withered claw, casting a wave of evil power at the angel that was killing her. Nephilia collapsed, but Mor'denaa was finished. Shrieking and wailing and contorting herself, the demoness was slowly reduced to nothing but a blackened pool of muck, with teeth and a lone smoldering eyeball riding in the bubbling mess. Then this too was set ablaze, and after several moments, there was nothing but an oily stain on the stone floor.
Mor'denaa had been destroyed.