The Warlord

Chapter 32: Evelaen

I can barely see the familiar below me, the thin crack of rapidly fading sunshine streaking through her black curls. The Serestinian scholars always said that Hell was twelve days and twelve nights away from the middle realm, but it seems that time is being warped again. Dread tingles in my stomach as I realize that months may have passed, even years. But the familiar's presence calms me. As a demon, she must have some control on the speed of our descent.

I continue to float down in the ever-growing darkness, and when the slit of sunshine shuts to a close, the familiar vanishes into black. I start to lose all concept of form as pure night takes hold of my vision, as I lose myself to the abyss below me. There is complete nothingness, and I fall to the point where I start to float, where I do not know if I will ever make it out of this void. Yes, a realm between the middle one and Hell. A state of transition, but also a state of nothingness. Gritting my teeth, I pull my mind together as I slowly flex my fingers, then my limbs, and then my core. I need to know that I am alive, that I am well, and that I have a physical being. The familiar is still hidden from my sight, I am still hidden from my sight, but I hiss under my breath and bear through it.

It is painful, having all my senses simply cut out and chopped to pieces right under my nose. But the hours morph into seconds as the inky world around me slowly becomes redder. Yes, redder. Red like a pure, blazing fire. Red like the blood of a thousand armies stained on pale skin. Red like a cacophony of raw screams and tearful eyes rubbed dry. And as everything turns into billowing clouds of harsh smoke and ash, the screams become reality.

Wicked, wild noises, mixed in with flapping wings and a faint crackle. The gray, billowy tufts clear from my eyes, and I find myself dropping into a world of sharp obsidian and dangerously jagged magic. Everything coming off of the realm below me sets my own powers on edge, taunts them and jabs them with a trident, making them want to rear back and roar. But I keep the erratic impulse under control, gripping my sword handle for focus.

As the surface grows nearer, the screams turning into something that surrounds me instead of being below me, I cast a cushion of magic underneath the familiar's feet. She lands softly, only seconds before I do, the crunch of glittering shards crumbling beneath our feet. Instantly my sword is out, flashing in the red light, but the familiar places her hand on my blade, making me lower it.

"Worry not, warlord. Rebuild your magical strength. I will guide us," the familiar says, staring into the distance. The look on her face is melancholic, but also relieved. I suppose she has grown to like the middle realm more than her original home. Familiars choose their masters, and once they leave Hell, they become stripped of the demon they once were, morphing into something new and strange; not quite demon, but not quite human. I keep my breaths steady as the familiar in front of me hunches over, letting feathers sprout on her skin like leaves bursting from branches. Dark, inky, glinting with an oily light; her animal form must be a raven.

I slowly sheathe my sword as she motions for me to follow her. Together, we trek through the lower realm; two lithe silhouettes in a world of barbaric demons. I try to take note of any landmarks, any special features, but it seems that the plain of dark, glittering shards stretches on forever. Any red-dusted boulders are unremarkable, and a bothersome haze of vermilion drifts through the whole place. I stumble along in the heat, the acrid smell of burnt flesh stinging my nostrils. The screams still continue as we walk for miles and miles, finding us from the tops of dunes and echoing through the air.

"We are getting close to the exit, warlord." The familiar turns back to reassure me, but the statement does little to soothe my jangled nerves.

As we trek through the lower realm, I struggle to calm myself, but my mind tips on the brink of breaking down. You are in Hell. You are in Hell. You are in Hell. I still cannot believe it. My palms sweat against my sword hilt, and everything puts me on edge. Shadowy figures taunt me through the fog, cackling with frightful wildness. They seem to draw nearer and nearer the deeper we walk, making my skin crawl.

A dune looms overhead, but as I slowly make my way up, my feet sinking with every step, following the familiar, a ruby red wall in the distance starts to grow closer and closer. Gigantic patterns are carved onto its surface: braids and wreaths and folds weaving into each other through dark, clean streaks. It resembles a door, with both halves stretching on for miles and miles.

"Look there, warlord. Once we reach the Twisted Gates, I will be able to open them, and we will return to the middle realm." The familiar points at the wall, continuing to trudge through the dune with me.

We slowly reach the top, and then begin to descend, almost slipping and stumbling our way down. But when we reach the bottom, a chill falls over me. The laughter of the demons is gone, in fact, everything has gone silent. Hell seems to have withdrawn into a void of silence.

"Something is not right!" The familiar hisses, dropping into a fighting stance. I follow her lead, brandishing my sword as we face opposite directions. My eyes flit through my surroundings, but the mist hides anything important.

Then I feel his presence. His cursed, ominous presence. Drifting in, settling, nestling on the ground like a pile of soft feathers, except it carries the weight of crushed dreams and cut off voices.

"I thought you said we'd be safe here!" I growl at the familiar through gritted teeth, as we both tense and face him. It is the beautiful, dangerous man from before, the one that chased us into the Briar Forest. The god of death.

"He shouldn't be able to walk through Hell! This very place is the exact opposite of everything he stands for, everything he represents!" The familiar shoots back, her magic lighting up in her hand.

She fires first, her magic of curling black streaking towards him. But he waves it away with his hand, only wincing when it touches his skin before it dissipates.

"Your magic is strong, demon. But not strong enough in comparison to mine," the god says. "And I'm afraid I can't have you running off again either."

He moved his arm out in front of him, a wave of jet black shooting from the motion. I give a cry and lunge with my sword, infusing my magic into the strike, but my blade bounces harmlessly off the attack. The jerking motion makes me fall back and trip, the sand sliding around my heel. The god's magic disperses into a smoke-like plume, clogging up my vision. I lose sight of the familiar as I sink into the sand, the magic surrounding me, making its way into my lungs. I hear the cursed god laughing softly in the distance as his magic overtakes me, blacking out my eyes and then my consciousness. Muffled sounds of the familiar sinking into the sand beside me are the last things I sense before I pass out, captured by the god.