54 – The Fires of Perdition

"Mephistopheles: Centuries of planning you say? How quaint. And with that you truly thought to outplay one who has been planning and plotting since before the ancestors of the mortal you once were came down from their trees?"

-Raelis Shae, The Pit Fiend's Wager, Act V Scene III

Amber and orange carpeted the forest floor, freshly fallen leaves mixing with others which were starting to crinkle at the edges. Leaffall still had a ways to go; the branches high above the squatting companions were still heavy with color, and the air today was warm with the last breaths of summer. The group was waiting and resting on something that barely constituted a forest trail, thick with brambles and spider webs, about a league's travel south and west of the estate on the outskirts of Beregost known as the High Hedge.

Xan had assumed that dry, fallen leaves would be a scout's bane, but Imoen made no sound when she appeared, head popping up behind a fallen log before she silently vaulted over. She landed right in front of him, a proud grin on her face, and he nodded in greeting, fighting down a smile of his own. Best not to encourage her wild and unnecessary gymnastics.

A moment later Skie appeared, low to the ground and cautiously making her way around the log, her eyes sweeping ahead for obstacles with each step. Just like her partner she managed not to crunch any leaves as she went.

Without waiting for Skie to catch up, Imoen spoke in a low voice. "Seems like a little camp alright. Just one tent and a firepit, in a big open field. Pretty sure there's just three people too. I combed the woods, all invisible, and there weren't any sentries."

"The people?" Dorn asked, impatience in his voice.

"Well, there's this big blonde guy sitting around, dressed in heavy armor. It's painted black and covered in snaky decorations. Impressive looking, if yer into that sort of thing."

"Serpent motifs," Dorn growled. "That would be Simmeon."

"The other two are a man and a woman. Both middle aged. I think they're a couple. The woman's dressed in a fancy red outfit, and the man's wearing chainmail. He's got that put-together look you see in a lot of warpriests, but I couldn't spot a holy symbol. More old friends of yours?"

Dorn shrugged. "Hirelings or some such. Simmeon is the last of my 'old friends.'" He got to his feet and shouldered his greatsword. "This should be simple."

"This," Xan protested, eyes sharp, "is glaringly, obviously a trap."

"Obviously," Dorn retorted, facing the trail and ready to be off. "But the trap is designed for me. He's not expecting a competent warparty. That was the point of hiring you. And we sent scouts. What more do you want?" With that he started down the trail, Ashura and Shar-Teel both shrugging slightly before following in his wake, blades out and bloody-minded as always.

Not to be following an idiot like you was what Xan wished to say. Barring that, he wanted to at least tell them that they needed to hold back. That something felt off. But he knew they would pay no attention to such a suggested. With one hand at the hilt of his moonblade and the other close to the pouches where he kept his spell-components, the Greycloak stood and trudged behind the bloodthirsty band of brigands that he now seemed to be part of. However did I-

There was a light rustle of violet right beside him, and he turned slightly. Imoen was right there, appearing out of nowhere as usual and leaning in close. "You look 'specially sour," she whispered. "Don't ask me how I can tell the ''specially' part, but I totally can."

Xan shot a pensive look ahead, eyes on Dorn's back as the blackguard thundered along. "This is just a…strange path for me to follow." He twisted his lips, trying to find the proper words.

"I suppose it is," she agreed. A brief silence. "You did help Kivan along the same sort of path tho. Said that you felt a kinship with him too."

"Well of course. He had…"

"And think about it. What if Mulahey had gotten away? Before we freed you."

Xan just gave her a very confused look, but Imoen had her eyes ahead, focused on the broad half-orc who was leading them. "I mean, it sounds weird, but I can totally picture you acting like him. Without the deep bass voice and the oafishness of course. But you can be cold, methodical and ruthless with that sword o' yours. Given the right circumstances I bet you'd totally do the 'cutting a bloody path of vengeance' thing."

"I…" Once again Xan looked ahead, and his mouth fell open, then promptly shut. The half-orc was armored now, but once or twice along the road Dorn had taken off his mail and vest. There were a lot of scars on that pale, bulky frame, mostly little nicks born from battle, but across Dorn's back Xan had noted a close thicket of raised flesh. Obviously lash-marks, and thinking of them made Xan's own scars itch.

And the snatches of Dorn's story he had picked up: betrayal followed by hopeless days or weeks in darkness, starving and awaiting some form of execution in a Luskan arena. Xan had certainly never consorted with daemons, but in that forsaken pit in the Nashkel mines…if some powerful being had made an offer between Mulahey's 'sessions' he doubted he would have declined.

"Sorry," Imoen whispered, concern in her voice as she watched his face. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't mean to make you remember…"

"It is alright," Xan replied. "You may have a point." He's not too different from Kivan really. Though far less charming. "I suppose it is a path I can understand, and I should not begrudge another's desire for revenge." His lips tightened a moment, frowning. "Still, I do not think I shall ever grow used to this business of bullheadedly charging into battle."

Imoen let out a grim little giggle. "Yup. Me neither. Spare a girl an invis? I'm tapped out."

He obliged: a touch and some words and she faded from sight.

Still, something was nagging him. More so than usual. "You are certain you spotted nothing unusual about their camp? No…object that people could be hidden in?"

"Nope," the voice of the invisible girl replied.

Up ahead the three bullheaded warriors were jogging now, and the forest seemed to be growing lighter. They were nearing the clearing.

"Nothing like that," Skie added, huffing along at Xan's other side with her bow unslung and ready.

"No strange configuration to their firepit?" he pressed.

"Nope," Imoen repeated. "Though um…not sure what that would even look like."

"There were those weird scratches," Skie admitted.

"Huh? I didn't see any scratches."

"In the dirt," Skie clarified. "Mostly covered in leaves, but the campground looked…I dunno, scratched up with all these little lines?"

Oh sweet Selderine. "Writing?" Xan suggested.

"Yeah, I guess it could have been."

I knew there was something. He let out a sigh. Too late now. The three 'bulls' were charging, momentum carrying them out into the open sunlight ahead.

Towards their doom.

At least having a hint of a warning was better than none. Xan had quite a few bits of dispelling magic ready, and he suspected they would be the first spells from his lips when sparks started to fly.

Bursting from the brush and into the clearing, the three warriors instantly fanned out with Dorn in the vanguard, finding space for their blades. Space for blades and space to close in like the jaws of a trap, Ashura shifting far to Dorn's left and Shar-Teel at his right.

From his perch on a small log the blonde man in black plate just glanced up, not seeming the last bit surprised. He stood with no hurry, an ornate hand-and-a-half sword clinking against his armored shoulder; a horned full-helm in his other hand. "About time," was the first thing Simmeon said, his tone soft and mild. The man and woman Imoen had mentioned had stepped forward and taken positions nearby, their hands empty and facing the ground, obviously readying spells.

Ashura scowled and tensed. Xan had been right, and it had been obvious. This was a trap. She was ready to charge, but Dorn seemed inclined to talk.

"I thought you would be grateful," the half-orc growled, "that I took my time with the others and allowed you to prepare whatever pointless surprise you have waiting." Xan had stepped out from under the trees now, and he seemed to be solemnly moving in to take a position a bit behind the warriors, glowing moonblade in hand. The rest of the party was keeping back to the cover of the trees.

Simmeon chuckled and with a flick of his wrist the helm settled upon his head, obscuring all but his eyes. "It's actually been quite the boring wait. I've been preparing for this moment long before the slaughter at Barrow, you see."

"You…what?!" Dorn cocked his head slightly, confused. "What do you mean? You left me for dead in Luskan!"

Simmeon snorted. "Hardly." His sword twirled, his other hand resting on the square wooden shield that stood by his feet. "Who do you think insured that you would find that summoning scroll? You had long been jealous of my powers, and my mistress and I had hoped you would simply jump at the opportunity to make the pact and try to supplant me. Of course you ended up needing further motivation, but what's an extra year or two when it comes to the plans of daemons?"

"This makes no sense!" Dorn snarled. "You wanted me to challenge you? And for me to…to make the pact?"

Makes perfect sense, Ashura figured. She had read more than enough stories about mortals dealing with devils, demons and yugoloths to know where this was going. No matter how clever you think you are, the immortals are always five steps ahead.

It would be best to charge the woman in red first. She looked like the spellcasting type. The hirelings were hanging back a good thirty paces at least. Shame I don't have a haste potion handy. Instead she carried a strength draught at her belt, along with a potion that could toughen her skin like armor. And a healing potion of course.

"Ur-Gothoz was searching for a new champion," Simmeon continued. "And my mistress thought it best to determine who that champion would be. Better for us to guide him to his doom, just as we did with-"

A sharp twang and a rainbow shimmer nearby interrupted his boast, Imoen's arrow streaking pointblank into the face of the woman in red. There was a flash of violet and the shot simply rebounded, clattering impotently to the ground.

One of those damn arrow-deflecting spells, Ashura realized as she dashed past Simmeon, charging the spellcaster herself.

"No-no-no," Simmeon's voice slithered, chiding. He stabbed his sword into the earth as the small army of well-armed mercenaries closed in around him, and the woman in red and her companion moved with him, palms open above the ground. "You WILL fight fair!"

In the space of a breath smoldering cracks expanded out from the spot where the blade had struck the earth; burning fissures that intertwined with symbols scrawled in the dirt. The leaves that had been hiding the markings blew back, most smoldering or bursting into flame, and behind the black knight the woman in red and the warpriest bent down to swiftly plant their hands upon the ground. More eruptions bloomed from the spots they touched, glowing letters snaking out and twisting together in circling and expanding patterns.

Tornadoes of burning leaves spun across the clearing now, hot winds radiating from the growing summoning circles and rushing out to the edge of the clearing, and with a burst of hot white light a wave of force and flame followed. Ashura shielded her face and turned her head from the explosion, and in the corner of her eye she saw the wave lift Shar-Teel and send her flying out of view. Close by she heard Xan let out a pained cry as well, and when she glanced around she saw the elf's fluttering cloak disappear beyond a great barrier of flame where the tree line had been a moment ago.

That wave of force and fire had struck her. Rolled through her. Yet oddly she felt…nothing. No heat, no wind, no pressure. She had only witnessed the effects.

Lowering her arms from her face, Ashura spared the clearing a glance. The earth glowed with burning lines of power, but standing upon them were her, Dorn and Imoen, seemingly unaffected and all looking about in confusion. Beyond them great curtains of flame had risen up in a broad circle. The woman and the warpriest had disappeared, likely somewhere behind the fiery wall.

With an arc and a painful jolt Xan struck the earth. For a moment he was senseless, then he gasped and started frantically patting at his cloak and robes. The fire! He had felt the rush of heat; half-tasted the brimstone.

But no, he wasn't on fire. The wave had simply flung him into the bushes.

Sitting up, he shook his head with frustration. The dispel had been on his lips. Worthless now. Though, looking at the inferno before him, he found himself doubting that his magic could have overcome that. In fact, he seemed to be looking at a powerful and well-prepared conjuration spell, and that was a school of magic he knew next to nothing about.

From somewhere above him a calloused hand shot down and gripped his shoulder. "Get up," Shar-Teel hissed as she yanked, and he stumbled to his feet. "Enough lollygagging. We need to get inside there."

"I don't think my magic can-"

"Bah," Shar-Teel snarled. "You're the most useless wizard I know. Can't blow people up. Can't break down magic walls. What are you good for anyway?"

Xan sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "A divination spell at least. I can-"

There was a rustle nearby as Skie's brown hair and frowning face poked out between some shrubs. "That man and woman who summoned up all that fire are outside the clearing," she announce. "I saw them appear on the other side, while I was circling."

Mouth open, Xan nodded slightly. "Oh. Nice…scouting."

"And we don't even need your spell!" Shar-Teel noted with a grin. "Ha!"

Shaking his head, Xan searched the brambles, spotting the blue steel of his moonblade a few feet away. He bent down, hoisted his weapon, and began to walk around the roaring flames. "Perhaps I can at least be of some use with this," he stated as he gave his glowing sword a few testing swings. "Come. We have a pair of summoners to kill."

"You're so sexy when you talk like that" Shar-Teel replied with a ferial grin. "Should do it more often."

"This camp sits on a leyline," Simmeon was shouting over the roaring winds and flames, "attuned to powerful summoning…" His voice faltered and trailed off, and now even he seemed confused, eyes darting about through the narrow gap in his full helm. "Why are you two still here?!" he demanded, eyes shifting from Imoen to Ashura, then back again. "The flames should have banished all who have not been touched…by…"

The whole world seemed to be fire now, great swaying walls that reached to the heavens and hid the sky in orange and red. In the curtain of flame behind the spot where Dorn stood trails of smoke and shadow curled and danced, congealing into a vague form: something shaggy and bestial, with many arms and great draconic wings.

"The Fires of Perdition?" a deep voice boomed from the shadows and flames. "Seems my champion has brought allies more powerful than you anticipated, Azothet."

The sound of that sent a chill down Ashura's spine. I'm a 'powerful ally' now? Somehow that was not a comforting thought.

Within the great wall of flame that billowed behind Simmeon streams of smoke slithered and coiled. "You never could fight fair, Ur-Gothoz," a second voice countered, slippery, melodic and vaguely feminine.

"You are one to talk, Serpent. You've simply been outplayed!" the flames and shadows bellowed.

"My servants still control the summoning circles, fool," the second voice hissed back. "I took great pains to insure a fair fight between our champions, and we shall have it!"

Ashura had begun to back away when the voices had started their little feud, glancing at Imoen as she did. She felt no heat as she neared the wall of flame. But did she dare touch it?

When she reached back and used the pommel of her righthand sword to test the fires Ashura tapped against something solid. Still no heat, but there was a force there.

Bah! She and Dorn and Imoen hadn't been 'banished' the way the others had, but they seemed to be trapped in here. Trapped in some sort of daemonic power struggle. It reminded Ashura of all the stories she had read about mortals dealing with fiends: you can stumble out alive, and perhaps even ahead, but no matter what you're still a hapless pawn. How can you not be, dealing with beings that live forever and play a very long game?

The circles in the earth where the woman and man had summoned up the vortexes of burning wind still glowed a blazing red, and with a sudden flare they erupted again, spitting up embers and what looked like tiny globs of magma. With a gurgle and a groan something else emerged from the growing rifts of fire where the arcane lettering had been: long segmented arms that clutched the ground at the edges of the circles, two apiece. With another gust of sparks and flame the owners of those arms lifted themselves from the ground, chitinous legs bending as their feet scraped against the ash and dirt. Swiftly they stood, hunched but still taller than a man; twin creatures that vaguely resembled humanoid insects with four arms each, their carapaces jagged and chipped and black as basalt. Their wide maws bristled with dagger-sharp teeth as well as clacking mandibles, and their great round eyes glowed a searing orange, as if furnaces burned within.

"Three on three now," the serpentine voice announced from the dancing flames, obviously pleased with herself. The summoned creatures were easy enough for Ashura to recognize from bestiaries and books on the lower planes. Mezzoloths, the foot-soldiers of the daemon armies.

Ashura took in a long, deep breath, then turned her head up towards the burning sky and shouted. "Why the fuck do you think we're going to fight for any of you?!"

Laughter echoed, flames danced, and the insectoid daemons advanced, four claws each and clacking all at once. Just behind the creatures Simmeon had pointed his shield forward and tilted his sword just above the rim, his limber, armored legs shifting from foot to foot as he took a dueling stance.

"Stand and die along with the champion of Ur-Gothoz if you wish, godchild," the serpent's voice proclaimed. "It makes no matter to me."

"This was not my plan," Dorn snarled, with a pointed glance at Ashura. "But I shall not back down!"

And I've got no bloody choice. Her back to the wall of solid flame, Ashura planted her feet firm and pointed with her leading blade. Well, I agreed to this job didn't I? She'd just have to be more picky next time.

The mezzoloths were closing in now, and Imoen seemed to be chanting something. A shiver shook Ashura as the aura of terror that seemed to roll off the creatures' spiny carapaces pushed at her. It was the first time she had felt daemon-fear from the other side.

Before the wave could overwhelm her she snarled and pushed right back, calling on the furnace within her to match the oncoming daemon's. Suddenly fearless, she launched herself forward, swords cutting through the air.

Pincer claws whistled over her as she ducked and slid in and slashed, her first blow bouncing harmlessly off thick chitin plate. She passed by the creature and spun, her next stab slipping between joints of carapace and drawing a pained screech from the daemon, along with a trickle of black ichor.

More clicks as the creature turned and Ashura leapt away, leaning back even farther as a puff of orange gas billowed from the mezzoloth's nostrils. Not far enough though. Her vision swam and her eyes stung, chest spasming with an involuntary cough. Another cough followed, slowing her, and then a claw was sweeping in. It struck her shoulder with the force of a mace.

The blurry, burning world cartwheeled around her. She was rolling on the ground now, desperately clutching her swords.

Rolling and righting herself; she planted her feet, lurched up and then back. Claws whistled by but they were a foot behind her, the creature too slow. Her chest burned and her head throbbed from the effects of the gas, so much phlegm welling up in her throat and nostrils that she had to fight not to gag.

The daemon that had advanced on Imoen was belching out an orange cloud as well, its head tilted straight up. It looked like Imoen was out of reach though, hovering high above the creature and supported by some sort of levitation spell as she rained arrows down upon it. Smart. Imoen couldn't retreat in the closed arena that had been conjured around them, but she could still go up.

Ashura caught all that in a glance as she hopped back and to the side, then claws and burning eyes and glistening teeth were close again; clicking and gnashing. A blur of black obsidian and she felt a sting and a smear of hot blood across her cheek. A twist and a turn and another burst of black as a chitin plate was cut away. Claws locked at her shoulders and pulled with terrifying strength.

There was wrenching pain as pincers dug through chainmail, clawing and trying to pull her apart all at once. She twisted, struggled, and desperately stabbed. One sword slipped from her fingers as the creature held on, imbedded deep between the mezzoloth's plates, hilt bobbing, and then Ashura balled her empty hand into a fist, blue-white light flaring. With a flick of her wrist she flung the ghostfire at the daemon, but the light simply burst into a thousand sparks and winked out, repelled by caprice. The creature reeled back slightly and then leaned in, hot breath in Ashura's face, mandibles expanding and wisps of orange smoke coasting out between dagger-teeth.

Then Ashura's foot hooked behind the daemon's leg and she managed to get some leverage, pitching them both towards the ground. Fire flickered all around them as they rolled along the crisp leaves, claws encircling and trying to cling; Ashura's free hand pushing and grabbing as she slammed the creature against the earth. Her other hand flew up and came down in an overhand stab. Then another and another and another.

Chitin plates had been biting into her palm. Then suddenly they were soft. Insubstantial. Then dust. The remains of the daemon crumbled between her fingers and then she found herself alone, on her hands and knees, coughing and heaving. With a little focus she managed to bring out some more of the strange, unearthly power that she wielded, using it to draw the poison out of her lungs, her hand glowing as it sent the orange cloud billowing away.

Through her blurred vision she managed to look over towards Imoen and force herself to her feet. With one hand Ashura clutched her remaining sword, and with the other she reached for her belt and touched the strength potion that rested there.

But Imoen was still floating and whole, now hovering above a cloud of smoking black dust that was peppered with arrows. The remains of the second mezzoloth. Clutching her bow and keeping an arrow knocked, Imoen slowly drifted down and landed softly. She turned and gave her friend a tired smile.

Ashura smiled right back. Then she looked ahead.

That left Dorn and Simmeon, circling in the center of the burnt clearing, their swords hacking and clanging again and again. Ashura looked down at the ground and coughed a few more times, waiting for her breath to get good and steady. No particular hurry. Gathering both of her swords, she stood up straight and glanced over at Imoen, who met her eyes and shrugged.

Ashura took a few steps forward, crinkling her lips and glaring at the back of Dorn's head as he ducked under a high slash from Simmoen and braced his greatsword and his body instead of countering. The move payed off, since Simmeon whirled and attacked again almost instantly, his blade bouncing off of Dorn's.

It was tempting to just walk up and stab Dorn in the back, then follow through by ganging up on his opponent. There! she'd shout up at the tiny gods that held them captive in this circle of flame. No more champions. You both lose!

Still, in his own pigheaded way Dorn had probably been 'true' to them. So instead Ashura took a deep breath and plopped down on the leaves, sitting a safe distance away from where the two blackguards dueled. She placed one sword in her lap and the other at her side, then gestured for Imoen to join her. With a puzzled frown and another shrug her friend sat down at her side.

From the curtain of flame behind her Ashura heard a frustrated, animal roar. Without turning she raised a hand, curled her fingers together, and made an obscene gesture right back at the daemon lord. "Not our fight," she muttered to Imoen in a tired voice. "Let the 'Champions of Perdition' sort it out."

Dorn let out a grim little laugh, which turned into a grunt as he parried Simmeon's sword.

Author's Note: This chapter and the previous one are both a bit shorter than what I usually write, because they started out as one chapter. Dividing it is probably for the best though; I feel like a nine-and-a-half-thousand word chapter that veers from sentimental scenes of friendship and affection to a fiery scene right out of a heavy metal album cover might have been a bit much.

Up next: a beloved character returns to possibly join the party once again! Oh, and I guess we learn who won the duel between Dorn and Simmeon.