He runs, scrambling down the deserted hallways, a flail in his hands. His breath comes hard and fast and pain has bloomed in his side, but still he moves forward. Behind him is a monster – a demon come to kill him in the night. There is something odd about the fact that the corridors are empty: something he can't quite put his finger on. But to stop running is to court death, and he is not willing to do that.
A voice echoes out in the distance, "Come to me and I will save you from yourself." It is beguiling and sweet at the same time; full of promise and steel. It is familiar, and yet he swears he's never heard it before. But he goes towards it as fast as he can. Sweat runs down his back, tickling the skin there. His side burns with a ferocious intensity, but still he runs, his breath coming in gasping hitches now. Behind him is the demon, and if it catches him, everything will change.
A circular room opens up before him, immense and dark. A pure blue beam illuminates the center of the cavern, for now the landscape has shifted from stone to rock, with stalagmites erupting out of the floor to trip him up. The center is where he needs to go – where the voice is emanating from. If he could reach it before the demon reaches him, he'll survive.
Adrenaline slams through him; revitalizing him. His legs move faster than he would have thought possible just a few minutes ago. He drops the flail in order to lighten his load. Sprinting towards the center, he avoids the rock outcroppings deftly as he maneuvers around them, unthinking. Behind him the roar of the beast comes closer; breathing down his neck. In front of him lies salvation – shining white in the center of the blue light.
It is almost within reach, one more step and he will be there… but the beast grabs him from behind, throwing itself onto his back and sinking its claws into his flesh. It drags him away from the pool of light; away from his salvation. Angry, he breaks away, running as fast as he can. A woman reaches out to him, calling his name in fear. He grabs her hand and is pulled into the light.
The demon howls in agony and hatred: it has lost, and its punishment will be severe. To hide away again: unseen – unheard – untouched. As the woman embraces him, the demon disappears in a flash of red sparks. He looks up into her pale gray eyes and smiles as blood drains out of the wounds in his back. "I made it, my love," he says. She strokes his cheek, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on his forehead.
"You are still human, Valen," she says.
Valen awoke with a start, the dream rousing him from sleep. Every night these images replayed in his mind. Sometimes he made it to the woman in the light, other nights the demon took him. Every time he slept; the same damn dream. The woman's features changed, but her voice remained constant.
Beside him he heard a small sound. Looking down he saw one of the slave women, sent here to bed him to keep him happy. He pushed her out of the bed, his lip curling upward and his eyes hard. "Go away," he snarled, pointing to the adjacent room.
Reaching behind him, he slid his hand along his back, searching for the tell tale signs that the dream was something more than middle of the night flashes from his subconscious mind. But there was nothing more than a thin tracery of scars from battles and punishments past. Knots of ridged tissue formed a map across his back, their landscape one of pain and torture.
Lying back down, he tried to let sleep claim him, but the embrace of that particular forgetfulness wouldn't come. Tossing and turning, he stayed in bed, trying to combat his wakefulness back into slumber. Always after these dreams he couldn't sleep. Deep within his soul, he knew they meant something: were indicative of some sort of trial to come. But with waking came a partial forgetting of the details, and by morning he would not remember the importance of the nighttime message.
The passage of time held very little meaning when every day was the same. A dull, boring monotony of identical actions lay out before him. Some days, there were choices to be made. Something different for breakfast. Perhaps a new sparring partner. Most days he was sent out to fight.
This day was no different. As he sat down to breakfast in the dining room, one of Grimash't's lieutenants walked up to the front of his table. In a loud, clear and commanding voice, the alu-fiend said, "Listen up! There's a battle shaping up on the Burning Glacier of Mungoth. All of you maggots are going there – today. So finish up your chow, march down to the armory and get yourselves ready! You have 30 minutes. Then you'll meet me in the debarkation room." Then she was gone, stalking out of the dining room.
Knowing it could very well be his last meal for a while, Valen hurriedly choked down the gruel that passed for food in this place. Months of experience had taught him that when one of the lieutenants said march; they meant it. He double timed down to the armory, hoping to get there before most of the others so he could at least have his pick of secondary weapons.
He had earned enough stature in the past several months to garner himself a suite of rooms and his own personal armor and weapon. But additional weapons had to be fought over with the other conscripts in the armory. His sheer size was an advantage, but some of those small guys were tough, and wouldn't back down. Not that he could blame them: bad armor or weapons could very well spell your death on the fields of the Blood War.
By the time the 30 minutes had passed, he was standing at attention in the debarkation room, armor on and weapon at the ready. Part of him reveled at the thrill of going into battle: testing his mettle against the devils they would inevitably come across in a gigantic chess game that never seemed to result in a victor. Who was behind all these machinations he would never know. In fact, it was doubtful that even Grimash't knew who was calling the shots in this war. He got his marching orders, just like the rest of them. The only difference was that he was higher up the food chain.
When the assembled platoon of alu-fiends, cambions, tieflings, babau and glabrezu were gathered in the debarkation room, Verdalin, the alu-fiend who had conscripted them all stood up. They had all heard of her exploits – she was considered quite a survivor in the tower, and Grimash't often placed her in charge of dangerous but vital missions.
"Look berks," she barked out. "This ain't going to be a pleasure cruise. If I find any of you sluffing off your duties, I'll run you through without a second thought. We're to travel to the glacier, kill all the baatezu, and then we'll be brought back." There would be no inspiring speeches calling them to war. She turned and began the incantation that would open the portal to their destination.
It sounded simple. But it wouldn't be. It never was. The baatezu always came on in greater numbers than they expected, or the terrain was more treacherous, or something unexpected was present. They would only survive if they kept their wits about them. And sometimes even that wasn't enough.
The pop of displaced air accompanied them to their current battleground. Around them were steep craggy mountains belching fire, smoke and lava. Beneath their feet were ice and snow, jagged and treacherous. The air was acrid and burned their eyes, making them tear up to clear the foul stuff away. It hurt to breathe, and already the devils were advancing on them, having sensed the arrival of tanar'ri through their common bond of absolute hatred.
With a loud cry, the tanar'ri rushed forward, all thoughts of anything other than killing gone from their minds. For a few moments, Valen resisted the lure of the demon within; but it was pointless. Soon he was just as bloodthirsty as the rest: hacking his way through an army of fiends and relishing every moment of it.
The battle raged for an indefinite amount of time. Besides dodging angry Baatezu, there were vast and treacherous crevasses to be avoided, and mudslides and avalanches that rumbled down the steep slopes of the volcano almost hourly. An entire flank of the tanar'ri was destroyed by one such avalanche, their bodies buried under tons of acidic snow and jagged rock.
But all things come to an end, even if it is a temporary one. Eventually the last Baatezu took his last gurgling breath. The battle was over. The semi-flat icy plain was strewn with carcasses slowly dissolving in the snow. The tanar'ri force was weakened: most of the rutterkin and dretches were gone, and of the higher thinking demons only a handful were left.
Valen stood with the others as they warily assessed each other. The blood lust didn't fade right away, and often the tanar'ri turned on each other when the devils were all dead. The others circled around: all of them paranoid and waiting for the gate to open so they could retreat back to the Abyss, clean their weapons and prepare for the next battle.
A puddle of light formed in the air between them, coaxed into life by Verdalin. The fiends rushed towards it, pushing each other out of the way as they struggled to get off the damn burning glacier. Valen waited: the portal would stay open long enough for all of them to enter. There weren't that many of them left, after all.
As he stepped through the shimmering gateway, he was surprised to find not Grimash't's tower, but a bridge stretching out before him. A host of tanar'ri were standing before them, swarming with the ever present rutterkin and dretches that served as front line troops. Graynoth stood with a circle of other lesser tanar'ri, his hand clutched around a rod that indicated he was in charge.
"We must keep the bridge!" he cried over the howls of the devils in the distance. The cataracts of the river were loud, the water splashing and skidding into rocks and boulders that barred its passage. Eddies swirled hundreds of feet below them. Ships sailing down the river were anchoring at a flat spot below the bridge, and hundreds of baatezu were disembarking and beginning the long climb up the cliffs to the bridge.
It was easy to pick them off at first, but they just kept coming and coming. Eventually they swarmed over the bridge, forcing the tanar'ri to retreat to one end. A few more platoons gated in, and the whole group of demons surged across the bridge, determined to take it no matter what the casualties were.
Existence narrowed down to the clash of metal and ideology. A ferocious hate burned within Valen; seething with animalistic intensity. The sight of the baatezu brought it to the front of his mind, the world colored red and all higher thought blocked out. There was only him, the baatezu, and the rage that existed between them. With a loud yell, he plunged into battle, his weapon an extension of his arm and his will. Giving in to the hatred and rage inside of him he let it consume him in a burning inferno; his humanity forgotten.
For long days they struggled against the devils. Each side sought to move the other back, claiming the bridge as their own. Some days the tanar'ri seemed to be winning: some days it was the baatezu. The struggle was endless. They would back up, regroup and rest. Sometimes they would eat, speaking to each other in terse tones and making ribald comments. Death laid heavily on their minds – not only that of their foes, but their own as well.
Something had to change – a new strategy was called for. In quiet measured tones, Valen proposed a plan that was as novel as it was unexpected. Most tanar'ri didn't follow strategy: they simply fought until they couldn't anymore. But Valen wasn't strictly tanar'ri, and his human side realized the value of preparation over mindless battle. Grudgingly Graynoth agreed, even though he suspected the plan would be abandoned within the first few minutes after the enemy was engaged. In the sand Valen drew out the lines of attack, pointing with his fingers who was to go where. The group divided up. The next push they would try this. If they succeeded, they would return to Grimash't victors. If they didn't, they would be dead. For the plan, if it failed, would get them all killed. They were tired and battle weary. Their armor and weapons needed repair. It wouldn't be long before attrition would get them. And the devils seemed to have a never ending supply of fresh troops. Since Graynoth had arrived with that one platoon, Grimash't had sent no one else. Either way, after this, they were done. Collectively they breathed a sigh of relief, knowing it was almost over, one way or another.
The push came and one group surged across the bridge, meeting their enemy in a calculated head on fight. As they began to take casualties, they slowly retreated back to a set point, where the second group was waiting. They lurked, hidden by magic, until the devils were behind them. In a great sweeping rush they outflanked the baatezu, slaughtering them mercilessly and dumping their bodies into the Styx to be swept away and broken upon the rocks.
The tanar'ri held the bridge as Graynoth sent messages: mission accomplished. Send reinforcements to replace us or lose this chunk of rock anew. Within hours, hundreds more tanar'ri arrived to solidify their hold on this famous lynch pin in Gehenna – the Bridge of Khalas.
The alu-fiend gestured madly and the tell tale energies of a teleport spell swirled around them. Those that had come here from Mungoth ground their teeth in anticipation. Would they be sent home? Or would they find themselves on yet another battlefield to fight another ultimately pointless battle? Valen tensed, clutching his flail resolutely in his hand. He watched as the other tanar'ri snarled at each other, some of them ripping into the dretches as their anger spilled over.
A shift and a jerk and he landed somewhere else. Cautiously he opened his eyes, and sighed in relief. Grimash't's tower. They were home at last. One of the balor's majordomos arrived in the hall where they'd landed. "All of you are to receive accolades. Follow me."
The surviving tanar'ri filed into Grimash't's presence, scraping their knees on the hard stone. The majordomo held Valen back with a brief shake of the head. "Not yet," he said enigmatically. When the booming voice of the demon had stopped, the wizened little creature that had brought him here pushed Valen forward. "Now."
As he entered Grimash't's receiving hall, he instinctively fell to one knee, bowing his head. He had learned through many failed attempts that to stand in opposition to the master here was to be punished severely. So he gave his obescience, even though it rankled him to do so.
"Rise, Valen, and accept your due," the balor boomed out.
He stood, surveying his surroundings. The majority of those he'd fought with were here, including Graynoth. The cambion smiled evilly, showing a great row of sharpened teeth. "I am the one who masterminded that feint, my lord," he snarled, turning his lurid red eyes from Valen to Grimash't. "Shadowbreath merely followed orders."
"Liar!" Valen shouted. Rage rose up and over him as he marched across the stone to stand in front of Graynoth. The other fiend stepped back, dropping into a crouch. Valen began to circle him, relishing the opportunity to finally kill this thorn in his side. His steps grew faster and his arms reached out, testing the cambion's defenses.
"Enough!" shouted Grimash't. "I will not have my two best warriors fighting each other to the death." With a flick of his wrist he sent them sprawling onto the floor in opposite directions. "Shadowbreath – you have earned a boon," he intoned, the timbre of his voice echoing throughout the chamber. "What will you have?"
It was the policy of the balor to reward his fighters for their efforts. Most days, that was. Some days he forgot, or didn't care to pay what they asked for. So requests were made that wouldn't make the great demon mad. Several other 'great' warriors had found themselves thrown to the pits or the dungeons after asking for something far beyond their reach.
A small flicker of suppressed humanity surged within Valen as he heard the balor grant him a bonus. The responsibility he felt over bringing another to this place, even though months had passed since their arrival, combined with the strange prophetic dreams he'd been having lately combined to make his next words all but a given. "I want Anara dedicated to me, and only me," he stated. His eyes flared brightly, daring the demon to deny him this. It wasn't that much to ask, after all. Just a woman, and one that was rumored to be so broken as to be worthless.
For long, silent seconds Grimash't stared at him. Valen began to think he was going to join those who had demanded too much. But a small measure of his defiant nature remained, and he stared back at the balor, unblinking. A low rumble erupted from the demon, and then he opened his mouth wide, guffawing with laughter. "You presume much, tiefling," he said in a sibilant voice. "But I will grant your wish – for a time." Then he waved his hand, dismissing them all from his presence.
Valen was tempted to stay and argue. He hadn't meant for a time, he'd meant forever. He had to protect her – she was his responsibility and even if she had completely lost her mind, it didn't change a thing. But to argue with a demon was the height of foolishness. In the end it would buy him nothing but pain and sorrow, of which he already had plenty.
Keeping his irritation in check, both at the time limit imposed on his request and the fact that he had not been allowed to fight Graynoth, Valen made his way back to his rooms. There was no telling when the Matron would get Anara to him: it could be soon, or it could be in a few days. It really depended where she was and what her current duties were. But Grimash't usually kept his word, if only to keep his warriors fighting at their most ferocious for him.
The rooms were silent when he entered. He stripped off the beaten and dented armor and laid it outside the door to be repaired. A servant miraculously appeared, and when he told it to draw him a steaming bath, it did so without question.
As he sank into the hot water, he let out a sigh of relief. His muscles were sore and battered, and the heat from the water was a welcome balm. When he finished with his bath he dressed in a simple tunic and trews, cinching the drawstring at his waist. Then he bid the ever present servant to fetch him a feast, for he was starving. He pulled his damp hair back into a pony tail, securing it with a strip of leather.
Fatigue and hunger warred within him for the dominant need as he pushed open the door to the main room of his suite. The servant was bustling in with a cart load of food as Valen looked up.
And stopped, his heart thudding in his chest.
A pale waif of a woman stood in the center of the room. It wasn't how he'd remembered her, in his dreams. She had been vibrant once and full of life. This woman was a husk – the shell of the one he'd known briefly. Grief and sorrow clutched at his heart as his throat grew tight. It wasn't the reunion he'd hoped for. But now that she was here, he intended for her never to suffer again.