Drums beat in the distance, reverberating through this icy plane. A rag tag band of demons and tieflings stood in a haphazard formation, weapons at the ready. Mountains ringed them, closing down the world to just their fury and the anger of the devils that were marching towards them. The drumbeat echoed in their veins: each pulse of their heart bringing the rage of the blood war closer and closer to the surface. Some of them were lost to its call already – eyes glowing red and feral smiles full of teeth and lashing tails.
Valen tightened his grip on the flail. The armor he'd been given didn't fit quite right – the pauldrons were too tight on his shoulders and the cuirass was too wide through the waist. In front of him the devils marched onward - relentless in their progress. He knew that in order to survive this fight, he'd have to let the demon within him loose. It scared him, the ferocity he was capable of when he gave in to those baser desires to kill and hurt. It wasn't the man he wanted to be. But the choice had been taken from him, again, by someone determined to profit from these wars.
The devils came at them, snarling and flinging their weapons through the air. The band of demons was small and outnumbered, but they had a surprise waiting. Within their center they concealed a mage of great power. It was said she could turn the tide of this battle, and when they won, return them home again.
Heat rose through Valen's body, in contrast to the bone numbing cold around him. His senses became enhanced, and the nearness of the devils drove him mad. Succumbing at last, he let the hunger and rage well up and take over. In a white hot fury he charged, swinging his flail time and time again. Before him the devils fell, taking wounds too grievous for them to live. White lightening crashed around him: evidence of the mage plying her craft. Some hits got through his defenses, but he didn't notice. The flail snapped out and made contact with flesh. A wet smack as it hit home, crushing skin and bone to dust. His world narrowed to the weapon and the devils in front of him.
Time seemed to stand still, and soon there were no more enemies to fight. Pain lanced through him from myriad injuries he'd sustained. It clarified his mind and brought him back to himself. The battlefield was awash in bodies and blood, the detritus of some old argument that had been burned into the souls of millions of sentient beings. No one knows when the Blood War began, only that it would end when either the devils or the demons were no more. An eternity of fighting that played out daily in battles just like this one. They were all pawns of some greater power who jockeyed for some unknown goal.
Everywhere around him the others were raiding the bodies, looking for usable items or money. He joined them. There wasn't much. Grimash't paid for unique items the warriors brought back. Information he paid for even more. Not with currency, but with favors and luxuries. The more Grimash't was pleased with your service, the more you could expect to receive from him. Those who were in favor found the women (or men) they liked gracing their private rooms and as much food as they wanted to eat. They lived like pigs being fattened for a feast. Valen lived in the barracks with 39 other sentients. He was lucky to get one meal a day and to keep the floggers off his back. But he kept quiet, didn't rock the boat. He endured all the abuse and the ribbing of his fellows: out of guilt. Out of a sense of responsibility for the one he'd caused to be brought here.
A few coins found their way into his pockets, and a slip of paper with some words on it he couldn't read. Could be important or it could be someone's market list. He didn't know. The red faded from his eyes, leaving an icy blue in its place. He began to feel the chill of the air as the rage faded, taking its oblivion with it. The battle was over, and still they were here. The mage should have teleported them back by now.
Light reflected off the snow, chasing shadows away and making everything appear hyper bright. He looked around, taking in the wounded and the untouched in one look. The mage was lying prone in the center of the combatants, but her chest moved up and down. She lived, for a while at least.
"What happened to her?" he demanded of the one standing next to her.
"Don't know. After the battle she just collapsed." The cambion stretched his long legs, flexing muscles to keep them limber after the exertion of the battle. "She's still breathing."
A scowl crossed his face as Valen bent down to listen to the human. Why they chose her for this mission he'd never know – humans were notoriously susceptible to the extremes of the Hells. Her breathing was deep, even and slow. Although the cold must be getting to her, her color was still good, and her heartbeat was strong. Valen shook his head. "I don't know why she's unconscious, but we should get her off the cold ground."
The cambion nodded once and then snapped his fingers. Three other tieflings came up to him, eager to do his bidding. "Prepare a fire – get the mage off the ground and warm. The sooner you can manage that, you fettered hellhounds, the sooner we can get out of here." A distinct hierarchy existed amongst Grimash't's warriors, and Valen had just broken ranks by speaking to the half – demon. He didn't really care. All he wanted was to get out of this frozen chunk of Hell and back to the Abyss. Live to fight another day. Get back into the good graces of his captor so he could try and find a way to escape again.
The subordinates scattered, looking for fuel for a fire and some way to raise the mage above the cold ground. Lacking anything better to do, Valen crouched near the woman, monitoring her status in case she should suddenly take a turn for the worse. The cambion just stood there, staring at him with a look of condescension.
"I know who you are," he said, using a claw to clean the blood from underneath his finger beds. Malice dripped from his voice, teasing the demon in Valen back to the surface.
"Yeah?" Valen kept his fingers on the wrist of the woman. He didn't dare look the fiend in the eyes lest it be considered a challenge.
"Yes. You are the one who brought back that delicious little human woman. I can't thank you enough for that morsel. She's been such a treat to all of us. And hardy! I didn't know a human could withstand that much pain. The look in her eyes…" Before the cambion could finish his sentence Valen was at his throat, fingers pressed into the small little dip where the windpipe could be easily crushed. "If you've hurt her…" he threatened, placing as much vitriol as he could into those words, trying to scare the demon into compliance with his desires.
The fiend found it within himself to laugh. Laugh in the face of death and in the puny emotions of puny little tieflings. "I can make her love me, you know," he said conversationally, as though the pressure on his trachea wasn't beginning to cut off his air supply. "I can make her desire me as no other, and die for that desire."
Valen increased the pressure, his eyes glowing red in the onslaught of this new threat to his well being. "You're not a full incubus, Graynoth. You don't have that kind of power."
Though he was beginning to see speckles in his vision from oxygen deprivation, Graynoth answered, his voice a harsh growl under the relentless pressure on his throat. "I don't need to be an incubus to make her love me, any fool could do that. Humans are so easily swayed by demons. I need only to reach out my hand and she is mine."
"You lie," Valen hissed, his anger amping up his strength as he mercilessly crushed the throat of the cambion. Suddenly he found his legs kicked out from under him and fists pummeling his back. Someone kicked him in the kidney, and pain lanced through his torso. Rage blossomed in his heart.
The kicks and punches were coming from two different directions. He waited, analyzing the patterns and the spaces where his assailants were. In one smooth motion, he flipped over, scissoring his legs to grab one tiefling by the neck. At the same time, he grabbed his flail, sending it out to make contact with the other tiefling's head. A wet thump greeted his ears and a crack split through the air. He jumped to his feet, flail in hand, looking for Graynoth. The cambion stood a few feet away, massaging his neck. At his side was the other tiefling he'd sent out to build a fire, brandishing a nasty looking broadsword. Menace glowed in his eyes, and he began to advance on Valen.
In response, Valen began swinging his flail, judging just when to add a flick of the wrist so he could hit the other man as hard as possible. A flash of white light overwhelmed his vision, leaving him blinded. Then as suddenly as it came upon them, the light was gone and they stood in a long room.
Dim, red light came from magma flowing through the walls, adding heat to an already blistering temperature. The floor gave under their feet, appearing to be something that was grown instead of built. At the far end was a throne carved out of volcanic rock, its jagged edges sharp as blades. The balor Grimash't loomed over them, his expression one of barely concealed glee.
"Fighting amongst yourselves?" he rumbled. Valen and the other tiefling glared at each other across the hall. Graynoth stood off to the side, nursing his injury and starring murder at Valen. "Shall I send you into the pits, boy?" Valen looked up to see the demon staring at him, waiting for an answer.
His eyes flashed red, the rage engendered earlier still present. "They insulted me." The lie came easily. It wasn't entirely false, and the small kernel of truth made it easy for him to pass it off as such. "They deserve to die. I killed two of them before we were brought back! You've never tolerated weakness in your ranks."
"Hmm." Grimash't tapped a claw on his ragged upper lip. With a flip of his hand, he dismissed the others, gesturing to Valen to stay. Graynoth was the last to leave, his parting look at Valen a promise of pain and treachery.
"You've done well for me, Valen Shadowbreath. I shall offer you a choice: double rations for the rest of the week, or a woman for one night. Which will it be?" The balor loomed over the smaller man, forcing a choice that he could just as easily take back in his next breath.
"The woman – my choice?"
Grimash't laughed. For several long minutes, he howled as if Valen had told the funniest joke there was. The tiefling just stood there, his flail dripping blood and gore into a puddle on the floor. As abruptly as it had begun, the laughter stopped. "No," said Grimash't. "I am not that pleased with you. Keep it up though, and in a few months…"
The rapid beating of his heart that had begun at the thought he'd see Anara again slowed as he realized he wouldn't have a chance to talk to her. There was no way Grimash't would send her to him. It would be some other slave, expecting a rough roll in the hay and just hoping to escape with her life. "I'll take the double rations, then," Valen said. It would help him build up his strength, which he would need if he was going to prove his worth to the balor.
Grimash't snorted, as if he'd expected the choice and didn't approve. "Very well. You are dismissed."
As he turned to go he remembered the slip of paper he'd taken from one of the bodies on the battlefield. He pulled it from his pocket, crumbled and stained with a few drops of blood, and handed it to Grimash't wordlessly. The demon took it without another word, nodding to Valen as he did. If it turned out to be anything important, the balor might or might not choose to reward him for it.
His mood foul, Valen made his way back to the barracks, taking the most circuitous route he could find. Guilt weighed him down, and he hoped he'd see Anara to reassure himself that the cambion's words were false. Perhaps he could even console her: offer her a glimmer of hope in this dismal life. Who was he kidding? By escaping from here once, he'd doomed them both to a lifetime of servitude. Any exits were well guarded, and any chance of him ever getting out of here again was gone. Still, he couldn't help but believe there had to be a way…