Death to the High Lords 9:
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Calisto looked understandably nervous as Flamuli's Warlocks prepared to lower her into her host's heart membrane. The thing that she had sought to destroy for countless years lay before her beating rhythmically, it's fleshy folds moving slowly up and down as it gathered in the magical energy that existed throughout the lands.
The two Warlocks glared at Calisto with looks of concentration, beads of sweat appearing on their forehead. The last stage of the Keeper's journey was about to begin, and to fail now would bring death to them all.
Out of the shadows stepped Asmodeus and Brachus side by side. They both nodded to the Warlocks, and Calisto began to rise slowly into the air.
The crystal chamber hovered above the centre of the Heart's membrane, and gently began to be lowered down. The Heart embraced her form as she sank into it, the surface never seeming to break or burst as hers had done. Such strength, she thought, forged over many years of battle and victory. I shall be safer here than in my own realm.
The crystal settled lightly on the floor of the chamber beneath the beating Heart, and the Warlocks breathed a sigh of relief and nearly collapsed with exhaustion.
Calisto looked about her at the skull-decorated walls and smiled. She almost felt at home. Then the rasping of Flamuli's voice intruded on her perusal.
"Welcome to my home, Calisto."
Calisto turned to see Flamuli regarding her with a quizzical look. It suddenly occurred to her that he had never seen the true form of another Keeper, as she had not. For a moment, they took each other's forms in as though they were both looking in a mirror. Both pairs of slit like eyes were wide with wonder.
"So…" they both said simultaneously. Calisto smiled slightly. Flamuli looked sheepish. "After you," he said.
"So, have long have you been in existence?"
"Seven hundred and fifty-three years. Roughly." Flamuli was finding it difficult talking to her. The simplest question from her left him struggling for speech. What is wrong with me?, he thought. "And you?"
"A girl by comparison," she replied, "A mere three hundred and twenty-eight years. Of course, I thought for a long time that I was the only one left when I allowed myself to become exiled. That changed, of course, when I returned and found you here. A pity that we never had the opportunity to spar once again."
"Yes, a pity," said Flamuli, "It would not have been much of a contest, mind. You had very little prowling the insides of your walls when I came to your rescue."
"What an absurd thing to say!" said Calisto, her voice suddenly fiery, "I would have given you a run for your gold if Lord Lawrence had not interfered when he did!"
"Granted," said Flamuli, "He did catch you on the hop."
"How much longer do you want this alliance to last, Flamuli?" she said threateningly.
"As long as the Legions of the Damned want me to. At least, so Zalador tells me."
"The Legions of the Damned?" said Calisto, her voice becoming steadily more distant. "Now where have I heard that name before?"
"You know of the Legions?" said Flamuli eagerly.
Calisto cast him a sidelong glance and smiled crookedly. "What's it worth?"
"Oh!" Flamuli cried plaintively.
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Grell and Melkum stood nervously outside Avatar Brandicor's throne room, wishing fervently that someone else was in their place. They did not like giving their highest lord bad news at the best of times, but this was by far the worst that they had to deliver. When the deep voice of the Avatar barked it's permission for entry, they nearly jumped off the flagstone floor. They settled their shoulders, squared their chins, and prepared for the onslaught.
The chamber they entered was sumptuous. Fit for a King, in fact, which Brandicor very much fancied he was. The tapestries that adorned the wall were immense, depicting great and heroic feats being performed by his predecessor. The stonework in the centre of the room was designed to look like the fabled Table of Fellowship that Flamuli's minions had smashed some years ago when they had taken Skybird Trill. Most of the city had followed, as Brandicor remembered it, being just a lowly soldier then. But ambition drove him on to recreate what was lost, but not without the help of some influential people and some slightly unorthodox methods. Now, through his own schemes and power struggles, he sat upon the throne that had once belonged to his title's namesake and reigned with a firm but not entirely benevolent hand. 'Keep them on their toes' was his motto, and no-one could persuade him to do otherwise.
Grell and Melkum bowed before Brandicor as he looked down at them from the gold and silver throne upon it's raised dais. He nodded, allowing them to stand upright once more, Melkum with his hand on his lower back as he strained to do so. Brandicor knew immediately that something was amiss. The two Wizards were not looking him directly in the eye.
"Well," he said in measured tones. Of course, if the tones were in fact measured by an instrument of some sort, it would have told you that an earthquake was imminent. "You have some news?"
Grell was not relieved when Brandicor did not connect the word news with bad. He knew that the Avatar knew already. "It's about Lord Lawrence, Highness."
The finger that was stroking Brandicor's beard stopped. "What about him?"
"The last we heard, Highness, was that he was carried off by a group of Dark Angels and thrown into their Temple's sacrificial pool. Needless to say, Highness, no trace has been found."
Brandicor nodded. He seemed to be digesting the news with an unusual amount of calm. "I see." He slouched back in his throne. He seemed to be pondering the news further, despite it's simplicity.
"We need your guidance, Highness, as is your title's duty in these difficult times."
Melkum glanced at his friend and colleague, wondering why Grell was trying to talk himself into an early grave.
"And you shall it," said Brandicor. "Melkum, a moment alone with Grell, if you please. Go back to your chambers. I shall be summoning you in due course."
Melkum bowed smartly and turned almost too rapidly for propriety. He shuffled out of the throne room, almost slamming the door after him.
Brandicor looked down at the nervous Grell and leaned forward on his throne. "Now," he said, his voice almost purring, "You and I are going to have a little talk."
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"Nice study," muttered Brachus as he gazed around the dimly lit office of Asmodeus. The paintings that adorned the walls were of the highest quality and, on occasion, the highest body count. His favourite lantern, a human skull topped with a candle, sat on the corner of his desk, it's feeble flame shedding the only light in the room. The carpet was the only thing that any outsider would have considered a thing of beauty, the patterns woven into it seeming to move in the candlelight.
Asmodeus gestured and a chair appeared before his desk as he sat down in his own high backed chair. He ran his hand along the arms of the chair which looked like ivory, but on closer inspection revealed themselves to be human femurs. Brachus flinched when he realised this, being human himself, but soon relaxed when he knew that no harm could come to him here. At least, not while the treaty lasted between their respective Keepers.
"So," said Asmodeus brightly, "It looks like the foes shall have to come to us."
Brachus tore his eyes away from a large spider that had begun to crawl up the desk's leg. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean that unless we find another portal and draw more Warlocks here, we will be unable to move two Keepers under a single Heart."
"I'm aware of that, Asmodeus. Perhaps you are forgetting about the portal that my Mistress obtained."
"I had not forgotten, Brachus. In fact, we already have it, and it's power has been exhausted. It's just four great lumps of ornamental crystal surrounding a hole in the ground."
Brachus sighed deeply. "Well, what are we to do? There aren't any more portals in this region. At least none that I know of."
"Well, I happen to have found one. Unfortunately, it's already owned."
"Oh," said Brachus surprised, "I thought that Flamuli and Calisto were the last of their kind."
"They are," said Asmodeus, "This one is controlled by a band of heroes from the land above who don't know that Lord Lawrence is dead. We have to defeat them to gain it."
"I see," said Brachus, "Well, our forces are strong enough, aren't they?"
"Against a troop of twelve knights, seven guards, four giants, and numerous Dwarfs? I don't think so. In our current state, we wouldn't stand a chance."
Brachus smiled slightly as he caught the glint in Asmodeus' eye. "I take it you have a plan."
Asmodeus grinned. "I always do, Brachus."
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In the training room, Bile Demons were grunting, farting, and sweating their way to better battle prowess. Their training would have gone quicker if they did not keep getting distracted by the Dark Mistresses sauntering seductively through the chamber. One Bile Demon got so beguiled by one of them, he forgot that he had sent the training effigy spinning and got struck on the back of the head by a flailing mace attached to the figure's arm. Two Imps standing nearby collapsed into peals of squeaky laughter, which quickly died away as the Bile Demon's bowels relaxed.
Life in the dungeon had settled into a fairly regular pattern. The Goblins lived in fear of Jella and her sisters, the Bile Demons lived in fear of an empty Hatchery, and the unassuming Imps lived in fear of Asmodeus' boots. The Mentor felt he could not start his day unless he had kicked at least one Imp on his daily rounds.
As he was overseeing the construction of a Casino where his creatures could relax when they were not on patrol, the gambit that he had discussed with Brachus earlier in the day began to click into place inside his head. It meant a great deal of risk, that much he knew.
But it would be worth it just to see the looks on those upstart heroes' faces.
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