[The Celestial Wars] Chapter 1.2

CHAPTER TWO

Eventually, the small party reached a cavernous space in the corridor that opened out into a huge rocky archway that stretched almost fifteen metres high and over twenty wide. Bone-like boulders braced the base of the archway that rose from the stones, and where they crossed in a point at the ceiling, a sigil that Avis would not have been able to reach across with both arms outstretched depicted the outline of a golden star in reverse on a black circular background. There wasn’t a mortal or celestial realm anywhere that didn’t at least recognise the formation of those five simple lines and fear it on some level. Although Avis couldn’t see it in his present condition, he knew it was there staring down at him as disdainfully as everyone else that marched under that House Banner.

On the other side of that archway, he could hear the raised voices of other males and attempted to close his eyes. Their anger could be felt almost through the walls, and he was under no delusion what the subject of their debate was about.

“Wait here,” Clarise commanded of the servants. She then took Avis’ broken jaw and lightly brushed her lips against his battered cheek. “I will return in a moment,” she whispered.

The voices fell silent moments after Clarise went inside.

The wait for Avis was agonising. He had no idea what she was saying to them, and had no way to defend himself or assist her in any way. He was completely at her mercy. There was nothing else he could do. If she failed, he would return to The Eternally Damned. If she succeeded … no, he didn’t want to give himself hope. This was not the place for it. If anything, this was the last place for it. The sign at the First Level’s gate said as much.

When footsteps re-emerged from inside the opening Avis whimpered again. They weren’t just from that of his wife, but also the heavy clopping of a second, larger pair of broad hooves. No sound was uttered, but the servants released Avis sharply and dropped to their knees with their foreheads pressed to the compact surface and their elongated arms stretched out in worship before them. Without their support, Avis collapsed to the ground beside them.

Small noises escaped Avis’ throat as he raised his arms to shield himself from the one who had escorted his wife from the High Court Chambers. Only one would draw such a response from Clarise’s servants by his mere presence alone. Avis stuck to his training and looked at the compacted flooring around his shattered nose. Don’t look, he thought to himself. For Mystal’s sake, don’t even think about looking. The demon’s footsteps ended with a final clop on either side of Avis’ head. Avis felt his bowels tighten, and for once was grateful he’d been given nothing to eat or drink for so long that he couldn’t humiliate himself further.

“Leave us,” Lord Belial commanded, his echoing rumble reverberating off the walls to fill the room. The room was immediately vacated.

Lord Belial then took a step back and Avis could hear him squatting down with his elbows resting on his knees. “I warned you, did I not?” he rumbled to the prone form before him. “There are whole realms out there that fear my wrath, yet you alone believed you had the power to defy me and bring harm to those I hold dear.” Unlike his sons, Lord Belial’s voice never rose above the same ominous monotone the entire time he spoke. And within that monotone, lay an eternity of control, and an innate ability to draw out even more terror from those that listened to it.

“You will never be welcome here. Those like you will never be welcome here. Those like you will suffer as you have suffered if they dare challenge this decree. My daughter wishes to uphold her matrimonial vows to you, but I assure you, if you ever, ever cause her to shed so much as one tear again, you will spend the rest of eternity amidst the Damned and I will crush every member of your pantheon into oblivion just for sharing your bloodline. Do I make myself quite clear?”

Avis’ answer was to whimper again. Yes, it was. Very clear. Very, very clear. Despite the celestial ability to live regardless of consequence so long as one had a power base of mortal worshippers, Avis held no doubt at that moment that Belial knew of a means to fulfil his threat. Somehow, someway, Mystal would die if he … Avis paused. … if he mistreated Clarise again?

“If I speak to you again, fear the repercussions.” Lord Belial said.

Avis then felt the gush of Lord Belial’s great wings as the supreme demon launched himself into the air, but still, the demon’s last words prior to his emphatic threat echoed over and over again in Avis’ tortured mind. If … If …

Could Clarise really want him back? Was that what this was really all about? Was he really getting a second chance here? A way to escape the Eternally Damned? Was this really true hope?

As these questions rambled into others, his whimpering shifted from agony and suppression to one of confusion. What if he’d gotten it wrong? What if he’d made a mistake? What if this entire charade was nothing more than another torment to show him what he wanted to see, only to turn against him at the first point he relaxed?

With that humbling thought, his mind resumed the numbed clarity it had before. If it was just another one of their games, the Lords of Chaos had only to tell him where to go and what to do and he would comply, just as he had been taught to.

Clarise returned a few minutes later. He could tell it was Clarise, for she still bore the Mystallian form that he found so pleasing and the delicate click of her fine heels on the compacted floor gave her away. But she wasn’t alone. He heard the faint rasp of plate armour. Thick, heavily fortified, plate armour that rubbed against itself without ever wearing, or even buffing the plates. These were no servants. These had a reputation of their own amongst the Known Realms.

Avis closed his eyes, barely flinching as a large, crab-like pincer tightened around his right upper arm while a set of long talons hooked his left and lifted him to his feet. He didn’t even have to look at them to know what they were. Highborn Hellion Guard: the elite of all the Pantheon Guards. As fanatically loyal as they were deadly, they were celestially bred to be the ultimate combat operative. The golden plates of their armour glowed iridescently, even in the darkness. They possessed four upper limbs—each capable of a completely different, independent attack from the others, so that no matter what persuasion of enemy they faced, one of those arms was capable of incapacitating—and in most cases, eliminating them entirely. Beneath the sturdy torso were three powerful legs, designed to support the body as it manoeuvred itself in four different directions simultaneously. Drawn over and above their shoulder-lines were two long, broadly curved bat-like wings with a large pointed claw protruding over the top to give them the advantage in aerial attacks. All this was just their standard mode. As beings capable of militaristic shapeshifting, they could become any weapon of any size they needed to be and moved faster than most could see to vanquish an enemy. The only time Belial had ever unleashed them upon a singular pantheon in the past, that pantheon’s army broke ranks at the sight of these creatures coming for them and fled from the battle before the Hellion Brute Squad had made their first offensive move.

“Forgive me, my love,” Clarise said. “I know how you feel about my true form, but to leave The Well and journey up into Hell’s punishment levels, I need to fly.” She looked into his unfocused gaze a moment longer before shedding her Mystallian appearance in favour of that with demonic wings. “I will only maintain this form until we arrive at The Walk. Please do not be angry.”

Angry? That was almost humorous—if only Avis had the strength to laugh. With his eyes closed, he felt a gush of air and his feet leave the ground.

Although he knew where they were heading, Avis’ breath escaped him with a gasp a few moments later as they left the Highborn Well and the sudden icy winds from Ninth Level blasted his fire-blistered skin. The eternal frozen wasteland of Ninth Level was where the worst offenders were sentenced to endure the frozen lakes without the luxury of falling asleep. Statues of frozen souls littered the terrain. Even without his sight, Avis knew they were there—because he had been one of them not so long ago, sharing in the misery that came from being one of the Damned. Icicles coated all their eyes as they stared out at the hopelessness of their situation and their mouths were wide with screams that no one would hear. Others were frozen inside the lakes, and more hung from the ceilings as giant frozen stalactites.

They flew through the gates of Antenora that separated the Eighth and Ninth Levels and up the Malebolge Mountain towards the Seventh Level. They passed over the chasm that was filled almost to the brim with souls suffering from leprous diseases. The stench that wafted up to them as they flew overhead would have once made Avis nauseous, had he not spent time down there, dwelling in that putrid stench. Oh, they had humbled him well. His only conscious act while down there was to fight his way past the mortal souls to reside on the top layer of that decomposing group. But even that became too much effort and after a while others were dumped on top of him, smothering him with the horrific reality of their predicament.

Their party flew towards the second chasm from Antenora, sardonically nick-named by all who knew it as The Walk. Despite what Clarise had in mind, this place was never really designed to heal. Healing would have been a pleasurable thing, and that went against everything the Nine Levels of Hell were designed to do.

From overhead, Avis resigned himself to his fate and opened his eyes, looking down at the circular chasm that was carved into this sublevel. Its twenty-kilometre length didn’t appear that long at all from where they hovered and the souls that were packed into the one-kilometre-wide chasm moving in an eternal circle were indistinguishable. At one point of the circuit, sat Sarvalis. Even from this distance, recognition of his bulk was undeniable. Standing at over two kilometres high from toe-talon to horn tip, his twisted horns rose nearly six head-lengths from his exposed skull. His arms were as thick as houses and the great sword he clenched in one hand dripped excessively with the blood of those that walked below him. That was the punishment of this level. To be severely mutilated by Sarvalis upon arrival. Be it a loss of a limb, beheading, or even simply gutted …it didn’t really matter as the agony was universal. Then, while nursing the injury, the soul was made to move as others from behind jostled them forward, inch at a time. With every inch of ground covered, the wound would begin to heal, even though the extent of the injury made it near impossible to move without moaning in agony. Then, upon completion of the circuit, the soul would have made a full recovery and was forced to face Sarvalis and his accursed sword all over again. Round and round this dance went. Round and round and round.

Avis was different from the regular Damned that dwelled here. He never knew if Sarvalis’ sword was going to strike him down as he walked. Sometimes it would, other times it wouldn’t. If the Highborn wanted him to suffer elsewhere, he was made to walk only so that he could heal sufficiently to be moved elsewhere. If they wanted him to suffer here, they allowed Sarvalis to do his handiwork, as creatively as he could imagine. Avis was never told which it was going to be.

* * *

“Milady,” Sarvalis purred roughly, kneeling on one knee with his great head bowed as Clarise and her party descended upon the ridge that overlooked The Walk. “What an … unexpected surprise …”

True to her promise, Clarise’s form shifted into that which her husband found more pleasing as soon as her talons came in contact with the rocky ledge, despite how out of place a well-dressed Mystallian lady of nobility appeared in these less than ideal surroundings. Sarvalis’ repugnant grimace at her choice of shape was completely irrelevant. “Lord Avis is in need of healing. It is my wish that he completes The Walk and returns with me to the Well in relative health.”

“Milady,” the demon replied, still on one knee.

“Be strong, my love,” Clarise whispered with a kiss, then stepped away and gestured for the guards to place Avis at Sarvalis’ feet. As was customary to her upbringing, she fought to maintain her dignity—to keep her eyes free of tears and appear dispassionate to all that was happening around her. The Damned and other nameless slae-els like them were never to know there were emotional differences within the sects and ranks of the Hellions. Before her, Avis and the Hellion Guard stood in the middle of the flow of souls like a rock amidst a stream. The Damned mingled and moved past him, indifferent to everything but their own, freshly incurred injuries.

Clarise interlocked her fingers and held them down before her, forcing herself to remain calm as her father’s guards released their hold on Avis and stepped back, pushing the Damned aside without remorse. Do this, Avis, she willed. It is but one walk …

But instead of moving, Avis’ legs collapsed beneath him and he was stepped upon by those hapless souls further back in the line that trudged forever onwards with their injuries. Clarise lost her composure with a gasp of fear as he went beneath the hordes of moaning Damned.

“Avis!” she cried, and ignoring protocol, she stepped forward and slid down the chasm into that same sea of lost souls that separated them. Some of those outer souls, overcome by madness from the duration of their stay, saw Clarise as the pinnacle of what they would never achieve and found the strength to reach for her with their gnarled fingers.

The Highborn Hellion Guard responded to this by abandoning Avis completely and launching themselves to her side to protect her. They formed an impenetrable barrier around her, pointing the arm that appeared like a coral stump towards the attacking souls’ injuries, injecting them with millions of poisonous spores. Their screams did little to ebb the tide of them, and before long, all four fighting fronts were being used on either side of Clarise. But Clarise never returned to her Hellion form—never chose to fly to the safety of the ridge above her. Instead, her eyes were locked on the spot where her husband was last seen. The Highborn Hellion Guard said nothing as they easily fought off her attackers and waited for Clarise to decide what it was she wanted to do next. If it was her desire to be there—it was not their place to speak to her about the dangers involved in it. Theirs was simply to safeguard her during her decisions, whatever they may be. Repercussions of such spontaneous actions were the responsibility of others far higher than they.

But Clarise was not interested in staying safely at the edge of the sea. Her husband was at the bottom of that sea somewhere, and she intended to find him. Pushing her way from the wall, Clarise barely gave the Hellion Guards enough time to position themselves to act as a barricade between the Damned and herself. She pushed her way forward to where she had last seen Avis.

Sarvalis snarled and held his mighty sword high and to the left. “Garlee!” he called throwing himself into the air and sliding into the horde of souls that mingled along the path. He swung his sword through them, cleaving his way towards Clarise. A small, goblinoid demon appeared from nowhere to hover near the great demon’s head. “Get some of the Malebranche devils from Eighth Sub-Level up here—now!”

Seeing their only opportunity to elude punishment even for a single circuit, the souls yet to be punished surged forward—only to rebound off the brute squad guard. Clarise made her way ever so slowly through the sea of souls. Sarvalis swung his huge blade hard and fast, carving and cleaving his way towards her. The tallest of the Damned only reached his knee, and many fell victim to the crushing weight of his feet as he crossed the chasm in his haste to reach Clarise. “Milady!” he called.

“Where is Avis?” she called back.

Sarvalis wanted to say something. He dearly wanted to, but he knew better than to say what was so clearly written on his face as he turned back towards his side of the ridge. Avis did not deserve this. Even he—a non-Highborn Hellion, had been outraged by Avis’ heavy-handedness of one of their Highborn Ladies, and he would never understand the High Court’s decision to allow Lady Clarise to rescue him.

Clarise followed the path made in Sarvalis’ wake, refusing to look down upon those that had been trampled into the ground. Her only concern now was … “Avis!” she called, only just managing to reign in her initial impulse to rush to his side. Many of Avis’ bones had been crushed beneath the weight of those that trampled him and his eyes refused to open. But his chest on one side continued to rise and fall ever so slightly and the blood in his veins continued to move. “Avis,” she said, kneeling down beside him in the filth. She took his head in her hands and tilted it towards her. “You must move, beloved. However much it pains you, you must move. Please. I will be here with you every step, but you must move.”

Avis looked up at her, and for a moment, his line of sight sharpened and she knew he was looking at her. But it only lasted a moment, and then it was gone.

“Avis!” Clarise cried, as the sharp jabbering of dozens of small Malebranche devils was heard on the ridge above. They slid down the embankment into the Damned, using their pronged forks to push and force the Damned back into place.

With the Malebranche devils there to maintain control, Sarvalis could focus his attention on his Highborn visitor. “Milady, your efforts will be for naught if you proceed in this manner,” he said, opening his free hand to plead with her, without physically making contact.

Clarise looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“You have given him hope, Milady, and he has accepted that hope with open arms. He knows he does not have to do anything anymore, because you will protect him, and so long as he believes that, he will not move from that spot.”

“Clarise,” a voice called, from far above.

Not ‘Milady’ or ‘Lady Clarise’ or even a tone that implied reverence. Simply ‘Clarise’.

Clarise looked up and saw a winged celestial angling his descent upon the heat currents towards her. Unlike the demons around her, this one’s wings were feathered and coloured the same bright orange and flame-red as that of his shoulder-length hair. His skin was as pale as her husband’s and his eyes were a deep rich blue. Most of his body was covered by polished silver armour with a simplified outline of a dove engraved upon the chest plate. In his right hand, he carried a flaming sword that was poised across his body to his left, ready to strike.

He swung his sword in a downward stroke as he landed alongside Clarise, striking the nearest soul to her across the shoulder and sending it screaming back into the void of others. He didn’t face Clarise at first, but turned his attention to any other souls, foolish enough to test his mettle. His wings shifted with agitation.

The moment she recognised him, Clarise curtseyed low with her head bowed and held her new position.

“Clarise, stand up,” he said, finally.

“Uriel …”

“Stand up!” the Archangel commanded, this time with more force.

Clarise did as she was told. “I have the authority of the High Court to do this, Uriel.”

“You do not have the authority to disrupt two sub-levels of Hell, sister,” he corrected.

Clarise lowered her head again and fell silent. That had never been her intention. Uriel placed the pointer finger of his free hand under her chin and lifted her eyes to his. “I will not say what has been said so many times already,” he said, gently. “Whatever your reasons, you have chosen to stand by Avis, and your determination to see him through this is commendable. But you know this is not the way to achieve your objective. You cannot give him support during this time. He must be driven to do this—he must believe that no one will help him, and that it will only get worse if he does not comply. Only then, will he find the strength to do what must be done.”

Clarise’s eyes welled with tears as he spoke, but he hushed her quietly, running his armoured thumb across her cheeks. “Go back to The Well,” he said, gently. “Let me deal with this. I give you my word as an archangel that I will return him to you in a matter of hours as healthy as he can be.”

Clarise wanted with all her heart to deny him this. She knew what it meant to be one of the Damned, and accepted that damnation as part of what must be. But she had also heard rumours recently that her husband had been suffering far worse than any mortal soul due to his crimes against her. That had been what instigated her matrimonial desire to protect him in the first place.

Pulling away from Uriel’s hand, Clarise knelt again beside her husband. “Forgive me, Avis,” she said quietly, pressing her forehead into his. “I will be waiting for you. I will always wait for you.”

* * *

At that, Avis’ eyes did open, and stayed open. She’s leaving? No! She … she can’t leave! She promised! She promised, and she never lied! Ever! She can’t leave me here!

His voice came as a weak, fear-filled whine and he wished for the strength to reach out for her …to hold her …to cling to her.

Clarise’s tears fell upon his face. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, before she could convince herself of another path, she shifted into her demonic form and leapt into the sky and arched downwards sharply towards the Ninth Level gate, followed closely by the two Hellion Guards.

Avis’ heart sank as he watched her go. She was leaving. How could she leave him? She promised she wouldn’t …

A pitchfork was rammed into the muscle below his right knee. “Move!” Uriel snarled, kicking Avis in the right direction as the Malebranche devil twisted his pitchfork and hissed gleefully. “I have no intention of allowing the likes of you to make a liar of me, slae-el, so if it takes my personal intervention to get you going …” His tone shifted into a near exact replica of his father’s earlier animosity, “…so be it.”

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CHAPTER THREE

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