CHAPTER SIXTEEN
INTO THE DEPTHS
When Mercius approached the dungeons of Asgoroth, the Hammer and the Blade at his back, he was oppressed by the tangible evil that hung over the place. There was no grand compound above ground, as had been the case for Mor'denaa; no, Asgoroth preferred to keep his doings hidden from the eyes of the sky. Instead, there was a small doorway at the back of a dank cave. The same doorway through which Mercius had once fled. They approached it with heavy hearts, not knowing how this day’s venture would end, but expecting the worst.
Mercius approached the opening at the back of the cave and smelled the darkness coming up to meet him. He felt at home in it. The others followed him down the stone passage, and Mercius could smell the fear on them. He thanked the stars, as he had many times in the past, that the force at his back was so strong. They were utterly terrified of this place and its overwhelming evil, but they continued onward without hesitation.
The Hammer and the Blade had no room for cowards or weaklings.
Mercius remembered his way down into the recesses of the deep dungeon, far below the surface of the world above. He navigated the passageways with growing confidence as his memories came back to him. From below, and steadily increasing in volume, came the harsh, guttural snarls of the demons that dwelt here. Also, Mercius could smell the slave pens where his mother had once languished for so many years. He could just hear, echoing off the blackened stone of the pits, the pitiful cries of the slaves. Griffin, as always strong at his side, shuddered visibly. The sounds were all too familiar to him, and they brought forth his fear and disgust in waves that Mercius could smell like rotting fruit.
As they descended, Mercius began to feel nervous. They were well beyond the point where demons should be roaming the dim corridors, but had yet to see a single one. A growing sense of uneasiness clawed at Mercius' heart, and he felt it leeching into his followers. He harnessed his fear with all his will, and marched steadily on.
At long last, with the smell of hatred and rot mixing with the distant wails of suffering, Mercius approached the door to Asgoroth’s enormous throne room. He turned to Griffin and his marshals and told them where they were. The fear passed like a shadow behind their eyes, to be replaced immediately with determination.
“He is there,” Mercius said in a low voice, “waiting for me. I can feel him, and he knows we are here. You must follow me into the chamber with the troops, and we will do battle with whatever force he has laying in wait for us. As for Asgoroth, I need to confront him myself, for none can follow me where I need to go. The chamber is defensible, but not forever. If you are overwhelmed, retreat. You will probably have to fight your way out, but the demons of this place don’t like the sunlight; use that to your advantage once you get outside. As for me, if I am successful with Asgoroth, you will know, and must leave immediately. Do not wait for me, because I don’t know how long I will be gone. If Asgoroth defeats me, you must run. All of you combined cannot stand up to his strength. He makes Mor'denaa look like an infant.” The men that he addressed acknowledged him with brief nods.
With that, Mercius looked each of them in the eye in a silent farewell, then opened the door to his fate.
The room was empty but for Asgoroth, in all his darkness, sitting atop his throne as Mercius had seen him so many times. He had replaced his snake-lion hounds, and the new pair sat to either side of him, radiating menace like heat waves. The great chamber was as Mercius remembered, its random pools of fire and chains covered in gristle suspended from a height lost in the distance above. The only sounds in the place were the rattling of the chains and the hissing plop of oily fire as it hit the pitted stone floor, echoing off the great walls.
The legion that followed Mercius into the great chamber filed along the walls until they were formed up at the edge of the room. There were two doorways leading into the chamber, including the one through which they had come, and the Hammer and the Blade covered them vigilantly, ready to destroy anything that should try to enter.
Asgoroth watched all this with his blood-red eyes from his throne. Mercius knew the nuances of the horned face, and saw laughter there, though the demon was silent.
Mercius strode confidently up to the foot of the dais, and stared Asgoroth in the eyes. There seemed to be a fire dancing between the two figures as they gazed silently at each other for long moments.
Finally, Mercius spoke into the stillness of the chamber, his voice strong and heated with wrath and hate: “Where is she, demon? Take me to her, or I will destroy you beyond all hope of rebirth.”
Asgoroth laughed his mirthless laughter that filled all hearts with fear and dismay. The hounds at his side hissed their agreement. “Your threats are hollow, my son,” came Asgoroth’s booming voice. “You know as well as I that you cannot defeat me. I will crush you and all of your pathetic little companions with the flick of my wrist. There is nothing you can do to save your precious angel. Surrender your cause, for it is worth nothing, and you know it.”
“If you will not lead me there, then I will find it on my own after I kill you,” Mercius said.
“No,” Asgoroth replied quietly. “You will not.”
As the last syllable left his lipless mouth, there was a crashing thunder and the troops set to guard the doors to the place were thrown violently back. Demons rushed into the room like a wave of locusts. Mercius watched in horror as they snarled into battle with the legion.
Fortunately, the Hammer and the Blade had been silently expecting this, and with a quickness that astounded Mercius, they formed up in the center of the room into four smaller fighting squares that dealt with their attackers on all sides. Mercius looked on and, with one quick, dismissive stroke, unsheathed Illuricht and decapitated a roaring four-legged demon that had rushed at him. He knew that the Hammer and the Blade would last for hours if they must, but eventually their strength would give out and they would be crushed.
He looked back to throne on which Asgoroth had so often perched and found it empty. Behind and to the side of the stone dais was a doorway tall enough for the mighty demon to pass through. It was a secret retreat, Mercius knew. It was left open, guarded by the demon’s hissing hounds, their heads lowered and tails lashing, awaiting him.
Over the roar of echoing battle, Mercius raised his voice with a power no human could equal; it carried clearly into the mass of struggling bodies, and was heard by all: “Griffin! Asgoroth has fled, and I follow. Fly from this place as quickly as you can! Do not wait for me!” He saw Griffin’s black face, streaked now with blood, his braided hair matted with gore. The man looked at him with anguish in his eyes, but nodded his understanding. Their gazes locked for a brief moment, then Mercius charged the Hell-hounds that awaited him.
They leapt upon him simultaneously, but his newfound strength in the Arka was far too great for them to withstand. Within seconds, one of the beasts had been vaporized into a mist of blood and bone, and the other lay in a twitching mass of severed limbs, its head still spinning several feet from its scaled body.
Mercius went through the doorway with Illuricht singing in his fist. The corridor was smaller than most in the dungeon; Mercius could reach out and touch the walls on either side. It was dimly lit by torches set into the wall at sparse intervals, and as Mercius ran on he was constantly fluctuating between dim light and utter darkness. He could smell Asgoroth’s trail, and followed him relentlessly.
Time seemed to warp out of context; there was only the chase down the unchanging hallway, his prey constantly ahead of him. The screams and roars of the battle behind him faded into silence. What he heard instead was a constant keening wail that seemed to come from the very stone walls of the passage, as if the souls of the damned had been imprisoned there.
Slowly, Mercius realized that the lights were becoming fewer and farther between, and eventually they ceased entirely. He was running now in total darkness that, with the aid of h
is demonic sight, he could barely penetrate. He had to run his finger against the wall at his side to keep his course straight.
Then, suddenly, the air changed. It opened. He came to a dead stop immediately, and was almost too late: one of his feet skidded off the edge of the path in front of him, and he was just able to catch himself before plummeting off some unknown precipice. The air coming up from the place was hot and rank, and carried distant and elusive howls of agony. Mercius peered into the darkness that sank in front of him, but could make nothing out. He had no idea how deep the darkness went, but he was sure that if he fell in, his soul would be lost forever in some unthinkable abyss.
Placing his back against the wall, Mercius breathed heavily in the darkness. Even his keen eyesight could make nothing out of the inky blackness that surrounded him. He summoned the Arka into his veins and, not knowing what the outcome would be, only knowing that he needed light to continue his chase, Mercius funneled the power into the blade he held in his hands. Its song increased in volume, relishing in the power that flowed through it. Mercius bent his thoughts toward light, and the blade erupted in a crackling orange and red blaze. Mercius passed his hand through the flame that danced around the blackness of Illuricht, but it carried no heat with it. Holding the blade high, he could see in its dancing light.
The pit before him was massive, he had to assume, for he could not see the far edge of the thing, and, looking down, saw no inkling of a bottom to it. The passage he had exited was flanked by a wall whose height was unfathomable. On his left, descending along the edge of the black pit, was a narrow stone stairway that diminished into darkness. It was uneven and crumbling, but it was the only route Mercius had.
He started down the stairs, his face grim in the dancing light of his makeshift torch, the scar running down the side of his face livid and angry, his deep green eyes full of wariness. He was tired and sore, and wanted nothing more than to crawl into a soft bed with his beautiful Keira. But his quarry lay somewhere in the darkness before him, and his angel needed his help.
After what seemed an eternity, the staircase ended. The pit which he had been skirting continued its descent on his right, but the floor opened out before him into more darkness. His paused to rest his aching legs, and from the blackness he heard Asgoroth’s voice, beckoning him onward.
He ran then, his limbs suffused with new hate and redoubled strength. The demon lord was close, and was waiting for him. He didn’t know how he could be sure of this, but he was.
He finally raced into a room that was small and close. In its center was a pit, two yards across, from which there spewed a black fire. Asgoroth stood on the opposite side of the blaze, the evil flame licking up to his black face and chipped horns. Mercius glanced around, taking in all the details of the confined space in that single glance. The walls were close, but seemed to have no substance, as if they could change the dimensions of the room at will. The flame, though black, cast a lurid shadow along the floor and ceiling of the place, and Mercius could see fragmented, toothy wraiths flitting along them. Their wail was of pain, and it was all around him, but it was also of glory and demonic lust. The things were trapped here of their own accord, he concluded, and reveled in the darkness.
As soon as he stepped into the room, the blade in his hand flicked out its meager light, and leapt with hunger in his grasp. It was all Mercius could do to keep hold of the thing, as it seemed to dance in the black flames before it. Its song turned to a snarl, and the writing along the blade rippled fiercely.
Asgoroth’s voice was distorted by the flames that separated him from Mercius: “Illuricht wishes to return from whence it came,” he said with no expression in his voice or on his face. “This very flame forged the blade you carry. The blackness of Hell is in this room.” Mercius wasn’t positive, but he thought he sensed the slightest bit of fear in the demon’s voice, and recalled that when he had given Mercius this weapon, he had shown the same fear of its origin.
“Your angel lies beneath the flames,” Asgoroth continued. “but you have to pass through the fires of Hell to get to her, and you cannot survive its torment. You are weak, Mercius. Had you stayed with me and finished your training, you would be strong and undefeatable. But you are a pathetic weakling. A disgrace and a failure.”
Mercius growled in his throat, and the demon blade in his hand echoed him. “Enough talk, you fuck. We end this now!”
Asgoroth laughed, but it was cut short as Mercius leapt the fire that separated them. He came down and, with a hissing arc of his blade, sought to sever the demon’s head. Asgoroth was too quick, however, and dodged to the side. Mercius landed and was immediately shot backward as the Arka flew from the demon’s fingertips and took him in the chest. His back crashed into the wall, and he felt bony fingers digging into his flesh, trying to pull him into the very walls; into their domain.
Mercius clambered to his feet and struck out with his own power. Asgoroth took several surprised steps backward, but maintained his footing.
The two shared blows, back and forth, red and blue and black lightnings racing between them. The massive demon towered over the sweating halfling. Mercius was weakening rapidly, but he could see that his force was taking its toll on the blackened demon. The fire in Asgoroth’s eyes was dimming, and his massive legs were trembling.
Finally, the two of them tired. Mercius realized with amazement that he and Asgoroth were evenly matched in the power of the Arka. With an unspoken agreement, the two of them ceased casting their strength at each other, and stood staring at each other, panting. Mercius was dripping sweat, and blood poured from Asgoroth’s pores.
“Surprised?” Mercius asked the demon.
Asgoroth didn’t reply, but Mercius saw the truth in his eyes: the demon was indeed surprised. Asgoroth had been convinced that he would lead Mercius on a merry chase, then crush him instantly and without trouble.
Mercius caught his breath then said, “Show me to Nephilia.”
Asgoroth cast a glance at the black fire that leapt from the pit at their sides. “I have told you, my son, that you cannot reach her. The pleasures of Hell will rip you apart before you can even scream your pitiful agonies.”
Mercius looked again at Asgoroth, then leapt toward the black flame. Asgoroth, quick as lightning, moved to intercept him. They struggled on the edge of the pit, the flame licking at their limbs. Mercius could feel the crushing grip of the demon, as well as the oily slickness of the evil flames which crawled across his skin like scorpions.
Asgoroth was much more powerful in physical strength than his son, but Mercius poured all of his power--physical and spiritual--into fighting off the hulking demon. It was a losing battle, he knew, but he thought that if he could just catch Asgoroth off balance, they would both tumble into the flaming pit. After that, he had no idea what would transpire.
As the two grappled, Mercius was able to free one of his hands and jab towards the demon’s face. Luckily, he caught Asgoroth with a thumb in one of his bloodshot eyes. Asgoroth howled viciously, and his grip loosened on Mercius.
With all the force that he possessed, and hurling the Arka down through his entire body, Mercius lunged backwards, and, amazingly, he and Asgoroth went tumbling over the edge of the pit, into black flames and searing agony.
Mercius felt Asgoroth release his grip on him. He was falling through flame, and it scorched his skin, melting it from the bone and igniting his hair. His throat was too tortured to scream. He knew not how long this pain would endure, but he steeled his mind and soul and heart against the agonies that were being played violently across his flesh. He felt the demon Asgoroth close by him, but could not see through the blackness of the flames that surrounded him, nor could his mind come forth enough to care. All he knew was pain. Endless falling, and horrific pain.