They’d taken him into a section of the great building that was all white. Then they’d said they would put him to sleep for the operation. Memnon had refused that, refused angrily. Who were they to put him to sleep like a kidling? He was a Lesser Herald, he could endure whatever pain the humans had in store. The doctor had agreed and said that they’d just give him a little injection to help his muscles relax, make it easier to cut his mutilated wings off. Now, if he’d just count backwards from ten…
And Memnon had woken up when it was all over, his failed wings removed and the searing hurt of the iron fragments removed from his back. And he had learned something about “medics” and “nurses”. They could be even sneakier than other humans. But he’d watched as his new wings had regenerated and they were true wings, ones that would support him in flight.
The doors banged and some humans came in, soldiers in the odd clothes they wore. The ones that had a strange pattern that made them hard to see. “Memnon, my name is Colonel Paschal.”
“Colonel.” Memnon stood up and tried to hold himself erect the way humans did. Not grovel on the floor and lick his boots as a high-ranking demon would demand. The Colonel looked at him and nodded slightly, like most of the human troops in Hell, he found the baldrick displays of submission sickening.
“Memnon, do you know of a place called Tartarus?”
“Certainly. It is the stronghold of a minor lord called Belial. I have had little to do with him, he is of little account. A defeated loser surrounded by others of his kind.”
“Well, he’s just become important to us. Critical question, you know where Tartarus is, you can get there?”
“Of course, Now my wings are well again, I can fly there. If I go as fast as I can, it will take me…” Memnon stared at the ceiling and calculated distance. “A minimum of 70 of your hours.”
“Seventy hours. Nearly three days.” Now it was Paschal’s turn to think. “How soon can you leave?”
“As soon as my lord commands. I have sworn fealty to Abigor and he to you. So when your lord orders it I will leave. What message must I give to Belial?”
“Oh, you? Nothing. We have a message for him,. One he won’t forget in a hurry. Your job is just to get to Tartarus, stay close to Belial’s fortress and wait, unseen. We will contact you there and send you the message we will wish delivered to Belial.”
Memnon nodded, now he could see why the humans had restored his wings, they needed his services as a Herald. Was Belial planning to defect to the humans as he and Abigor already had? If so, then he, Memnon, would be well placed in the favor of these strange new lords to whom he had sworn fealty.
Outer Ring, Sixth Circle of Hell
“All set up?” McElroy looked around at his unit. Well, it wasn’t his any more, but he still had a proprietorial feel over it, even though the living troops from Earth had inflated its numbers and provided a proper command structure. The strike team was now nearly 60 humans, living or deceased, and they were about to teach the baldricks a lesson in applied firepower. And applied vengeance.
“All units, get ready. Mortar teams, prepare to open fire on my command.” The voice on the radio was heavily accented. European, where in Europe was beyond McElroy’s ability to identify. Their equipment was Russian, or at least Eastern-Europe though. That meant Poles? Or Czechs perhaps. No matter, they were somebody’s special forces troops and whoever they were, they were very good.
“Fire!” The accented word came over the radio and McElroy heard the coughing thump of the mortars opening fire. They were the big ones, 120mms, the biggest modern artillery deployed within the Hell-Pit. Despite their size, their crews went to work with a vengeance. A good mortar crew can get six bombs in the air before the first strikes home and these crews were better than good. McElroy watched the ripple of explosions walk across the market place, the fragments scything down the baldricks as they stood around the stalls. They’d never been under mortar fire before, they had no idea what it was that was killing them and they just stood there, bewildered, while the bombs crashed down around them.
Mortars are deadly weapons, their rate of fire and high payload making them great killers of creatures caught in the open. Their worst limitation is ammunition supply; especially when the weapons were man-packed in the way these were. The crews were already running short and they kept back one round each as a final envoi for when the humans withdrew, Their role was taken over by three machine grenade launchers, AGS-17s, that pumped their small rounds into the target, picking off the groups of baldricks left standing by the 120s.
Down below, McElroy saw the baldricks starting to react. Cries of “human magery” echoed up the slope and figures broke from their paralysis to try and get away from the unexpected danger. The problem was, they had pitifully few places to go and far more then half their number were already down.
“Move in.” The orders were curt, tense. McElroy brought his M115 up to his shoulder and squeezed off three rounds at a baldrick that seemed unusually active in trying to rally resistance. The figure went down, sprays of green blood erupting from its body. Then it was his section’s time to move forward. The others were laying down intense fire, pinning the baldricks in position. The deceased humans got to their feet, running forward to their next position, a shallow depression about half way down the slope. It took seconds to reach it, seconds that seemed like hours, but they made it and spread out, giving covering fire for the next group to move forward.
It was classic stuff, fire and maneuver, each squad moving forward while the others covered it from their own positions. There were a few bolts coming out from the beleaguered baldrick positions but they were wild, McElroy suspected some of the enemy were just holding their tridents over whatever it was they were hiding behind and blasting away at random. It took only three jumps to close in on the marketplace and by then what few baldricks were left alive had pulled back into their camp, but doubtless they’d be re-organizing in there. Time was short.
That wouldn’t matter much. The great cart that was the object of the attack was in front of them, the mortar and grenade crews had been careful to keep there patterns of shells and bombs away from it. McElroy saw a baldrick, his legs shattered by fragments, trying to drag himself away from the slaughterhouse that had once been a market. He didn’t even pause before shooting the crippled demon in the head.
Indira, are you there?
Waiting for you. Ready now?
Biggest portal possible Indi, big as you can, it will only be for a few seconds. We’re on our way out.
In front of him, the red air of hell shimmered and a black ellipse formed. McElroy and the rest of his unit grabbed the cart and started it rolling forward, ignoring the screams from the children inside, Behind them, the mortar crews already had their weapons on their carts and were rolling them towards the hole while the rest of the special forces group gave covering fire. Then, the red/gray environment of Hell vanished and McElroy found himself inside a large building, a hangar, lit from outside by the clear yellow light of earth’s sun.
Behind him, the heavy weapons group were already through the portal, and the special forces troopers were backing out, firing through the black ellipse as they withdrew. Six of them were bringing three others who were obviously hurt, another carried a dead man in a fireman’s lift. Then, as the last came through, the portal shut down.