“Good”
Abigor felt a flash of irritation at the interruption. “I fear that I have grim and terrible news. My Army was defeated, destroyed by the Humans. Something has happened on their world, something that is terrible beyond belief. They have magic that is so powerful we could not stand against it. They can breath on whole sections of an Army and leave nothing but mangled flesh, they have lances and arrows that never miss their target, that follow the one they aim at no matter how much they run.
“Run? So you admit your army ran?”
“After all but one in a thousand had died, Yes Sire, we ran. All those who did not died. Most of those who tried to escape the humans died. The humans have iron chariots.”
A thrill of horror went around the room. Iron chariots had caused them problems once before, problems that had required a succubus, a peasant girl and a tent peg to sort out. Now they were back in a new and more terrible form?
The thought of Iron Chariots sent screaming rage flooding through Satan’s mind but he kept himself under strict control. There was so much he needed to know. “Tell me all Abigor. From the start.”
Sprawled on the floor, Abigor started to relate the history of his devastated Army. How it had marched out of Hell and across the desert to its first objectives. The strange attacks on the way, the flying chariots that had killed some of his commanders, the mysterious explosions that had wiped out whole command groups. Then, the enemy defense line, the fire lances, the exploding ground, the snakes of iron that tore his troops apart. The way the humans had breathed death, how they never came close to their enemy but killed from distances. How they had slaughtered Abigor’s Army then chased it back across the desert, killing remorselessly as they did so. By the time he finished, the room was silent and the demon Dukes were looking at each other with profound unease.
“So now we know the reason for the destruction of your Army Abigor.” Satan’s voice oozed charm, then suddenly turned to a berserk scream. “It was cowardice. Unmitigated cowardice. You claim that your Army pressed home its attacks bravely yet you are here alive to give the lie to that statement. Your soldiers were cowards who would not charge the enemy but ran away and you were at their head. You led the disaster, you led their failure. Your cowardice was the cause of your army’s destruction.
Here it comes Abigor thought. A hideous death.
“But I am merciful.” The oily cooing was back in Satan’s voice. “I will give you a chance to redeem yourself.”
“Majesty, I thank you. But there is something we must do first. We must close that portal before it can be used against us.”
“Would that we could.” The words were not spoken but formed in Abigor’s mind. It wasn’t Satan speaking but he didn’t know who it was. “Our mages have been trying with all the energy they can command. It is no use. We cannot close it. It may decay on its own, in time, but we cannot close it. It is as much a fixture now as the very walls of Dis itself.”
“That is not your concern coward.” Satan turned to Memnon. “Tell me your story Herald. Let us hear how you ran from the humans and betrayed our kind.”
Memnon stared at the leering, sneering figure on the throne. Satan had no idea, what hew as hearing simply wasn’t registering. He began to speak, the experiences of the last month pouring from him.
Outside the Portal To Hell, Western Iraq
Running. It was all he could think of doing. Legs pistoning like a great machine his hooves kicked up sand and grit into thick clouds with each giant stride. His breath came hard and fast, foam flecked at the corners of his mouth and his eyes were narrowed into slits as he pushed his body to its limits and beyond in a frightful dash towards home. His mind was racing along with his body. The memories of his recent sojourn here on this dreadful plane burned through his fear and panic.
He had watched his wing mates annihilated by sky chariots. They never stood a chance and all their infernal might was no match for human magic. He did not have time to taste the shame that shot through him. It was not the time or the place to wallow in his misery. He needed to survive. He needed to get home. He needed to repeat the words.
Uriel. Damn the Nameless One. To unleash Uriel on this world in all his awesome wonder and glory was almost too much to bear. After all who was he but a humble servant, a warrior for his Duke. And now to be a messenger, a go between for the angelics made him want to spill his guts into these desert wastes and scream with impotent horror into the night.
But there was no time for that. There was only time to run and not think about the sounds around him, the cracks in the air that indicated some human was pointing his plastic lance and firing bolts of fire nearby, perhaps even at him as he rumbled by like a run away freight train. Were his wings healed he would be flying so hard so fast that the very sinews of his shoulder blades and joints would tear away.
There were the more ominous cracks of artificial thunder as human sky chariots blasted their way overhead. Sometimes it was followed by the deep bass rumble of human fire magic as it burst over a concentration of Never born and spread them over the wastes like fertilizer. He had seen one such strike up close as he ran.
One of the cavalry servitors tending to his dying mount looked up at him as he raced by, several foot soldiers were standing by the noble one waiting instructions. One must submit his will and being to a demon of higher order. It was the way of things. It was the natural order. The cavalry servitor demanded he halt and give a chant of greeting and submission. Memnon had actually considered for the briefest moment to do as he was told. Every fiber of his being seemed to tense as it prepared to submit as was custom and tradition.
The artificial thunder rumbled directly overhead and he remembered the death, the fire bolts, the arrows of doom that could pluck them from the sky as easily as a hawk picked off a field mouse for supper. And he responded in a manner that still haunted him.
“Run you fool!” he spat and his hooves did not falter, did not pause. He simply continued running, hot sweat hissing as it touched whatever it fell upon like an obscene rain. The cavalry servitor was stunned. Eyes bulged and tusks snapped loudly in anger and confusion.
“In the name of Abigor you will submit to me now or--”
Then there was the brief sound like parchment tearing or the clothes of some helpless human wench being rent by lecherous claws and then the cavalry servitor, his mount, and several of the closest foot troops exploded into a thick cloud of blood and bone. They were gone in a moment as if they had never been there. Several of the surviving foot soldiers were crawling away screaming in agony as they left liquefied or shattered limbs behind. He looked up long enough to see a sky chariot with its wings whirling over its head roar past in a low trajectory like a bird of prey surveying the carnage of its passing.
“Or what you fool? Everything has changed. Our world has been torn asunder.” Memnon spat to himself in sheer disgust. He paused only long enough to make sure the chariot did not come around for another attack run but the combination of the billowing clouds swept up by the chariot’s passing and his own panicked running had obscured him from its sight and unlike the other higher flying iron and plastic chariots this one seemed to lack the keen senses of its brethren and that saved the wayward servant of the Morningstar.
His body started to seize up and muscles cramped as he took those moments to slow down. He had pushed himself beyond all endurance and his body was now reacting to his fevered pace. At any moment he would collapse in an exhausted heap and sleep through the hazy pain to awaken refreshed.
However, one glance back at the bloody crater where before several of his kith and kin had stood fired him up and he raised one arm to his mouth and he bit deeply into the bicep. Flesh was rent from his bone and blood gushed into his nostrils. He snorted in pain and pleasure and that small spark of pain he was so keen on inflicting upon the useless wretches of humanity kindled a small surge in power pushed by will and fear and the Never born exploded back into his break neck pace.