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A gust of wind ran through the hills, and the fields of shimmering gold rolled and crashed in triumphant waves. These fields of wheat, blanketing the landscape until they disappeared into the horizon, seemed to glow in the orange dusk.

Hidden in the fields, kept out of sight and out of mind, were the slaves. As his Nightmare drawn chariot passed the workers by, the Cold Lord of No Mercy reflected on this. The slaves were strong and hardy men, with tanned backs and muscular, near statuesque builds. Despite this, their backs were bent forward in ugly hunches and their faces were devoid of any meaningful expression. Year upon year of unending toil had broken them down into husks of men. They lacked the spirit to rebel, and so the harvest would go on.

The chariot drew to a halt before a dark and imposing mansion. With the sun low in the sky, it cast a long shadow over the courtyard before it. The courtyard was empty, devoid of any decoration save a lone statue of a stout man, wearing a heavy fur and gazing majestically into the distance. Gargoyles leered down at the Cold Lord from posts along the mansion's slanted roof.

The Nightmare, body black as soot and mane bright with flames, stamped its hoof in impatience. The Cold Lord cast the creature a brooding glance. Under his gaze, the Nightmare's flames guttered low.

Loose soil stiffened beneath the Cold Lord's cloven hooves, turning to a dirty grey permafrost. With the ground frozen, not so much as a trace of a hoof-print would be left behind. These parlor tricks, which many of the Cold Lord's kin deigned as below them, unnerved mortals more than the creatures cared to admit. Such beings, for all their clout and for all their false-bravado, felt their hearts quicken and their breath tighten in the presence of true Gods.

He knocked on the mansion's heavy door. It came creaking open. When the doorman looked into the Cold Lord's dead eyes, his back stiffened. The man tried to speak, but was at a loss for any words. He was barely able to regain enough of his composure to conduct the Cold Lord, an honored guest of Master Willard, inside.

Willard, who was a greater deal softer looking than the statue of himself, was seated in plush leather chair beside a crackling fireplace. He wore loose fitting robes spun from the finest silk. In his hand he held a silver goblet, filled to the brim with rich wine. The walls of his library were lined with bookshelves, home to a variety of ancient tomes and long lost accounts of the realms below. With a detached and thoroughly clinical curiosity, Willard looked onto the Cold Lord's diabolical visage. His eyes ran from the Lord's hooves, to his claws, to his wings, to his horns, and finally to his cold eyes.

The Cold Lord took a seat before Willard.

"I summoned you," Willard said at long last. "To ask you for a favor."

Silence lingered as the Cold Lord stared Willard down, probing the man's soul.

"I am worthy," said Willard. "I am an exemplar of... your kind's virtues. I follow the edicts of Eblis more closely than many of your kin. I believe that in another life, I was one of you. Your kin, I mean."

The Cold Lord just stared.

"What? Do I have something in my teeth?" Willard grinned at his own wit. "I will pay any price you demand. All that I ask in return, and this sounds like a lot more than it actually is, is the realm of Magistrum. I will reign as you see fit, and I will enforce your... What's the phrase?"

"Edicts," the Lord answered.

"Yes, I will enforce your edicts through the land."

"You show a great deal of disrespect," he said, speaking through a voice from the depths of Hell. The voice spoke of the ancient's creatures terrible power, and the depths it had stooped to claim it. "No regard for formalities, or rank."

"Your grace, with all due respect, you aren't making this easy." Willard grinned nervously.

"Say my creed."

"'These is no evil, if it is unseen.'"

"Explain it," said the Cold Lord.

"The world is a terribly complicated place and, if one spends his whole life obsessed with the welfare of others, he is paralyzed with indecision. The only sane way to live is to only concern yourself with yourself."

"And?" Though the Lord's voice was patient, there was an ominous quality to it.

Willard swallowed. "And not the suffering of others."

"In eight days time, a document will be 'uncovered' showing that you are of noble blood and in fact you are the rightful heir to the throne of Magistrum. The King will resist your efforts, but in the end he will fall and you will rise as Magistrum's true King. It will be a vicious war. Nevertheless, you have the wealth to call on legions of mercenaries, the King's thoroughly corrupt officials and bureaucrats, and as many spies as you could possibly desire. The public will rally behind you, and that will be the King's undoing. Is this satisfactory to you?"

"Yes. Yes it is. And for your payment?"

"After your realm has been consolidated and you feel that you have been granted all that was promised, many years from now, I will call on you for minor favors. You need not fret over them. There is only one matter that currently needs attending to."

"What?" Willard asked, genuinely curious.

"Say my name."

"Is that really necessary?"

The Cold Lord shrugged.

"I mean... its just a word. How important can a word be? Really, I think that actions speak louder than words. Actions like enforcing your edicts through-out the realm. Don't you agree?.... I mean, anyone can say your name-"

"Evidently not you."

Willard, eyes bright with fear, let out an unsteady breath. "Mephistopheles," he said.

Mephistopheles, the Lord of the Eighth Hell, the Archduke of Caina, the Cold Lord of No Mercy, allowed himself a smirk. "Thank you."

This is great! Really stoked you're doing something non-40k, as if i'm honest some of your stories would have been better without the 40k elements. Also it appears to be original fantasy, something close to my heart. Please continue, really intrigued by this.

This have oh so much potential. Will be awaiting more

Tell me more servent of the dark and shadowy abyss.

Chapter One
Reign In Hell

Caina was cold.

It was cold, and it was still.

Old forgotten legends, lost to the scouring winds of time, said that when Mephistopheles stripped away the last vestige of any virtue and descended to Caina, coldness and stillness was all that he had left.

The gates clattered shut behind him. Caina's Gelugon Sentries, insectoid creatures with multifaceted eyes and armored bodies, prostrated themselves as Mephistopheles' chariot passed them by. They touched their foreheads to the icy floor, and stared on in reverent awe. He was an Archduke, one of the Saints of the Pit, one of the Paragons of Devilkin. To them, Mephistopheles was a figure to be subject to worship and envy in equal measure. All of the Devils below him sought to kill him and take his place, in the hopes of achieving his power and his greatness.

The Nightmare's flaming hooves scored deep grooves in the ice, just barely allowing it to maintain its footing on the slick surface. Caina was an unending frozen wasteland, completely flat and completely barren save for its fortress cities. These castles of ice towered over the realm, piercing Caina's cloudless skies. They were just barely visible through the darkness that blanketed the layer.

Of all these great towers, Cuspis was the greatest. It rose from the center of Caina itself, wickedly sharp and bristling with pointed spires. Miles in height, its lower floors were teeming with lesser Devils. Gelugons patrolled too and fro as sentries, while reptilian Spinagons and fat-bellied Manes labored in work crews. Nearly a dozen floors halfway up the tower were reserved for Caina's ever growing bureaucracy, where corpulent and beady eyed Amnizus sorted their way through mountains of paperwork. Malebranche, archetypal bat-winged and sharp fanged gargoyles, supervised the creatures and were quick to crack the whip whenever work slowed. Cuspis' highest levels, decorated with icy finery ranging from magnificent chandeliers to frozen gardens, were reserved for the nobility of Caina and their servants.

Cuspis' gates flew open and the guards abased themselves at Mephistopheles' approach. He flew by, not even acknowledging the guards with a glance. From there his chariot ascended a long and spiraling staircase. The Nightmare sensed its master's growing impatience, and was charging ahead as fast as its legs could carry it. The stairs were narrow and the steps were icy, designed for claw-footed Spinagons and not chariots. Mephistopheles' chariot just barely managed to round every turn without crashing.

He went as the far as the stairs would take him, only departing the chariot after reaching Cuspis' highest floor; his throneroom.

His throne of ice, with leering gargoyles for armrests and a spiderweb stretched between two spinal columns for a headrest, awaited him atop a lonely dais. A tremendous Dragon, nearly thirty feet in length, lay half-way curled around this dais. Its scales were burnished to a shining scarlet hue, and its leathery wings lay folded at its back. The Dragon stared at Mephistopheles with fiery eyes, its reptilian face showing nothing of its emotions.

Long ago, Mephistopheles had taken in the creature, Adraxus, due to their similarity. Both were beings who had been cast down from the light for their aloofness, only to thrive in the darkness. It served as his personal guard, attending its master during official councils and political conferences. He was well aware that Adraxus and the Baron Silcharde, a duplicitous Pitfiend, were scheming to kill him. Let them. When Silcharde and Adraxus finally set their plan into action, they would give Mephistopheles the excuse to purge Caina's conniving Pitfiend aristocracy once and for all.

Seated at a desk off to the side of Mephistopheles' dais was Barbas, the Archduke's gross bodied Chamberlain. He was fat and disheveled, with greasy tangled hair and a grin that bared his yellow fangs. Red horns protruded from just above his brows, distinguishing him as a Devil and not just a particularly ugly mortal. His desk was scattered with paperwork, from a half dozen on-going legal cases and bureaucratic nightmares.

"Welcome back, your grace," said Barbas, hunched over a tome of laws. "And how was the mortal realm?"

"Pitiful. A slave of mine, Willard, is launching a coup against the King of Magistrum. The war will be vicious by mortal standards. I'll gain influence in the world of Aberoth, and, more importantly, I'll gain thousands of souls." Mephistopheles took on a grandiose tone. "Numbed to all the suffering in the world by the inevitable horrors of Willard's war, thousands of veterans will be condemned to the icy depths of Caina."

"And Stygia," Barbas was quick to add. "So long as Leviathan reigns."

"Don't test my patience. Leviathan is weak. He languishes in his icy cage, while his empire crumbles all around him. He will fall, and our old soul quotas will return."

"He's taken to using your title. His minions started calling him the 'Cold Lord of No Mercy.'"

"The broken thing will do anything for attention. He's a disgrace to our kin." Mephistopheles took on a sullen expression. "Did anything else happen during my leave?"

Barbas sighed. "I doubt this will be news to you," he said. "Beelzebub has consolidated his alliance with Mammon. His grace, Lord Dispater, hasn't taken it lightly. He's demanding a meeting to discuss the possibility of Astarte and Mammon launching a joint invasion of Dis, under Beelzebub's orders."

"I suppose I have no choice but to attend."

"The Justicator Bele has found that the Cainan Daily has been publishing heretical articles," the Chamberlain continued. "Seeing as a move against them would be a highly public one, he seeks your approval before taking any course of action. Also, the good Baron Guland was arrested, for what he claims was improperly filed taxes. He spent three days in a Nessian prison before he was able to make bail. Oh, and one last thing of note. Baftis demanded to speak with you immediately on your return. She was quite indignant."




Baftis had been waiting to ambush Mephistopheles in his bedchambers. Hoping that it would encourage her to leave him in solitude, the Archduke had granted Baftis her own chambers and a scourge of sixteen powerful Erinyes so that she could enforce her will through the realm. It wasn't that Baftis hadn't picked up on these hints. Rather, it was that she didn't care for them in the slightest.

She was naked, her gorgeous body in full view. With her hour-glass frame, soft lips, and easy going smile, she was a beloved figure to the lesser Devils of Caina. Baftis strode towards Mephistopheles, swinging her curvaceous hips and flaunting her buxom chest. "You were gone a long time," Baftis said, throwing her arms around him. She bit her lip. "I missed you."

"Baftis, my Queen," Mephistopheles said, his voice flat and toneless. "What do you want?"

With a wicked grin, she held him tight. Baftis set about straddling him, slow and rhythmic. Mephistopheles remained unmoving, letting the spectacle go on. "Just gonna be quiet, huh?" she asked. "Well, I know one way to loosen you up."

She went to her knees. Baftis was loosening Mephistopheles' robes when the Cold Lord finally lost all patience. His knee came up hard, ramming into jaw and knocking her backwards. Before she could recover, Mephistopheles launched a furious kick with a cloven hoof. It caught her by the temple, breaking through the skin.

"What do you want?"

Breathing hard, she glared up at him with look of pure hatred. "I want Buldumech dead," Baftis hissed. "The Baron. Baron Buldumech, I mean. He caught and ravished one of my Erinyes. She ended up with a chest full of broken ribs. She ended up killing herself, because it was better than trying to recover."

"What do you mean, 'he caught'?"

"What do you think? She was meeting a contact, in his manor. One of his servants, Buldumech's, works for me."

"So," Mephistopheles said. "What you're saying is, Buldumech caught you undermining my authority and harassing my Barons, and you want me to punish him?"

"In your leave, I act with your authority! When he defied me, he defied you!"

"No. He just defied you. In my leave no one acts with my authority, because no one seems to be competent enough to." The words struck deep. Baftis sat down on the bed, and let out a sighing exhale. She had bit her tongue when her Lord had struck her. Now the cracks between her teeth were red with blood. A dark bruise was coming into view on her temple and her jaw. "If you really had been acting with my authority," spat the Cold Lord. "Then perhaps you would've done something about Baron Guland's arrest."

"What?"

"He was arrested, and brought to Nessus. Do you know what they means?" He took on the tone of a teacher lecturing a foolish child. "It means that he's been interrogated. Who knows what he could have told them? Not just about me either. About all of us. Including you."

"Of course I didn't do anything! You were just saying that I'm too incompetent to act with your authority!"

"Get out." Mephistopheles rested a hand on his trident, which was held up by two hooks on the wall. Its three prongs were slicked with icy blood. "Get out of my chambers, before I do something very foolish."

Baftis didn't even bother grabbing clothes before she fled into the hall.

A struggle for the throne in the mortal realm and hell, like it.

This is really turning out as a diabolical read! I enjoyed it

A party was held to celebrate Baron Guland's release from Nessian custody. The Barons of Caina, the twenty Pitfiends that ruled their vast fiefs as Mephistopheles' behalf, were all in attendance. They were great scaly beings with heavyset frames, each one standing at almost twelve feet in height. Their scales were dull, faded shades of crimson and brown. Long curling and spiraling ram horns jutted from behind their pointed ears, and eyes swimming with blood glowed in their sockets. The creatures kept their leathery wings folded at their backs. In a lavish show of wealth, they wore the immaculate golden and platinum jewelry that only nobles could afford. Tall slender pointed crowns were especially popular, as was hanging one's neck with as many golden chains it could bear.

They didn't come alone. Each Lord was accompanied by a retinue of attendants, usually Spinagons, that waited on his every word. Some of the more paranoid Lords brought Hamatulas guards with them, fierce long faced creatures bristling with spines driven by a lust for carnage.

Erinyes delicately plucking harps, singing siren songs, and fawning over the Barons provided the entertainment. As per Barbas's exacting requirements, they were large chested and red-haired girls. Sometime during the party, Barbas had disappeared into his private chambers with nearly a half dozen of them and a bottle of champagne.

The ballroom was alive with music, laughter, and drunken, boisterous Pitfiends who felt they were a great deal funnier than the actual were.

Mephistopheles was in attendance, sipping wine in an alcove far off from the main party. He made sure to be in attendance at every major meeting of the Barons. The Barons rarely accomplished anything as the meetings usually devolved into drunken celebrations, but it was important to be there none-the-less. It was a matter of great significance to observe the Pitfiends. How some couldn't relax around him. How others relaxed too easily. Who talked to who, and who avoided who. Until Mephistopheles could rid himself of them, he was forced to foster rivalries between them. If they united against him, their combined might would be unstoppable.

He saw Bele stalking towards him. The huge barrel chested man, with his hollow eyes and snow-white skin, was the Justicator of Caina. It was he who dispensed justice in Caina, in the form of executions and torture, and lording over the Eighth Hell's supposedly impartial justice system. "Your grace," he said as he stepped into the alcove, offering a quick bow. His voice was low and nasal, and he spoke at barely a whisper. "I presume that Chamberlain Barbas has informed you of the Cainan Daily's heretical publishings."

"Yes." A Spinagon carrying a trey of champagne glasses slipped. The furious Baron Sphandor, a Pitfiend whose body was marred by a patchwork of scars, stomped on the back of the creature's head. Its face was shoved into the broken glass, and the wounds stun with alcohol. Mephistopheles ignored it. "He has informed me."

"I am still awaiting on your Lord's judgment."

"They clearly have a deathwish; we might as well humor them," Mephistopheles said. "Kill them all."

"I have one more object of importance; Queen Baftis claims that one of her spies reports seeing a Pitfiend working out a deal to become a state witness. It could be Guland."

Mephistopheles downed the glass. "Tell that witch she reports to me first. One of my Barons is an informant and I'm the last one to know!"

"Not so loud, your grace."

Nearby Devils were staring, wide eyed.

"I must be leaving," Bele added. Maintaining an air of regal dignity, he left the alcove, leaving Mephistopheles alone with his wine.




Careak, a gargoyle looking Cornugon, was the editor of the Cainan Daily, a fact he took pride in. Hundreds of thousands of Devils, nearly a million, relied on him for news. When disaster struck Hell, they turned to the Cainan Daily first. And he could feed them whatever lies he pleased. The paper's target audience was corpulent Amnizus, creatures who were intelligent enough to read despite being stupid enough to read the news. A great deal of catering had to be done for them. Articles were always being written about the importance of bureaucracy and the valuable role of Amnizus in Hell.

The fact that Amnizus wrote the paper and Careak only edited it influenced this greatly.

His office was on the top floor of one of the towers jutting from Cuspis and running alongside it. The three floors below him were reserved for the writers and their Impish assistants. The next few floors below those were reserving for printing, packaging, and delivering. From his office, Careak had a nice view. He could see the ice fields stretch on seemingly infinitely, disappearing into the night. There was something peaceful about it. Careak could just look out the window, and know that all was right with the world.

In the even that all wasn't right with the world, he had two Hamatula bodyguards to protect him.




Mephistopheles drew himself to his full height, ten feet, and left the alcove. He couldn't shake the thought that Baftis might've been right about Buldumech. Technically, in his leave, she did act with his authority. By ravishing her spy, he had shown that the other Pitfiends could defy him without fear of retribution. It was an act of insubordination, one that couldn't be tolerated. With grim determination, he strode towards the Pitfiend.

Buldumech was entertaining several other guests. He was swinging his arms around in exaggerated hand gestures and imitating an Amnizu crying for help, while other Pitfiends were laughing hysterically. The Baron had a natural charisma; he seemed to effortlessly take control of conversations, shifting all attention towards himself. "And he was still standing there, pluggin' the leak with his finger, and screaming his head off," said Buldumech. "Tyrell keeps telling him to calm down, as if that's gonna do any good. The little gak screams, "What about the leak?", as if, ya know, we didn't notice it. And Tyrell, Tyrell says, "Don't worry." And he pulls out a meatcleaver."

The Pitfiend was huge. His body was pure muscle, with no fat to slow him down. A gladius, made from the purest diamond, hung from a belt at his waist. On the pommel of the hilt there was an archaic thunder rune. "So the little gak is screaming louder than ever, and Tyrell keeps sayin', "Calm down, calm down" and he's raising the cleaver. Then WHAM it comes down. The Amnizu, all red eyed and teary faced, is clutchin' his stump finger and screaming. "And that," Tyrell says. "Is why you don't mess with hydraulic acid.""




"HEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!"

The voice was distant, from maybe a few stories below Careak, in one of the packing rooms. Packing room accidents weren't uncommon, and neither were shrill cries for help. Once a barrel of printing inc had been accidentally left next to a firepit by mistake. It had heated up until it caught fire, and the wooden barrel had lit up with it. The resulting fire had killed over a dozen Devils. He'd seen an Amnizu's guts burst and all its heaping fat come tumbling onto the floor in a sizzling heap. Five weeks later they had still been scraping what was left of fourteen Devils off the floor.

"I'M INNOCENT! I'M INNOCENT! SOMEBODY HELP, I'M INNOC-"

That was unusual on the other hand. Careak could only think of one reason to scream that...

"Bar the doors," Careak said. "And do it quickly."

He had to admit, it had caught him by surprise, but he wasn't entirely unprepared. There were a few things he'd kept around, in the event of something like this. One was a custom forged longsword, cursed with the essence of a thousand lost Demons. When the blade's edge caught flesh, they lashed out with all the hatred and all the suffering in the world. Fire arced its way up victims' backs. Eyes melted and ears bleed. Bones exploded, detonating like bombs and shredding a body to ribbons.

Of course, it was unlawful to fight back, and Devilkin prided themselves on the hierarchical and very much lawful organization of Hell. The fact remained though; the most important law was to serve Hell's best interest. And what Devil didn't think he served Hell's best interest? In Careak's opinion, he was one of the greatest Devils who had ever lived, one who had very much benefited the world with his publishing. In his opinion, the lawful thing to do would be to fight back, and ensure he would live another day to support Hell. An entirely selfless action.

The longsword wasn't the only weapon he had. The other two were gifts, courteous of a Netherdaemon Ambassador. They were elemental runes, forged on the Anvil of the Gods in the days of yore. One contained the bound essence of a fire elemental, a roaring and raging beast of bilious flame. The other contained a water elemental that was a great deal more subtle, but no less dangerous. Both creatures were barely sentient, and were only capable of understanding one concept; attack.




"Baron Buldumech, I was hoping I would have a chance to talk to you." Mephistopheles' voice was cool and refined. He let none of his fear, none of his doubt, show.

"And where better than in front of everyone, in the middle of Guland's party no less?" Buldumech bellowed, laughing. The other guests were drunk enough to laugh with him. "Now Mephisto, your grace, you're a great leader and a great boss, but you always have the worst timing."

"I'm afraid it can't wait."

"The only way to conquer your fears," said Buldumech, slurring his words. "Is to face them. So why don't you just let it wait, have something to drink?"

"Queen Baftis says that you ravished an Erinyes servant of hers."

"Oh that bitch! Yeah, I 'ravished' her. She was talking to one of my slaves, getting blackmail information. For all I knew, she was one of the Sovereign's agents, or one of the Order of the Fly. And she was beautiful too. That ass of hers was-"

Mephistopheles raised a finger. Wearing a forced smile, he said, "I don't want to hear it."

"Then why are you even talkin' to me?"

The last of his patience exhausted, Mephistopheles grabbed Buldumech by the throat.




A battering ram slammed into the door. Wood splintered, but the iron bars held. Again, the ram hit the door. It must've been so much work, Careak thought. To haul it up the tiny, icy, spiraling staircase. Evidently, they wanted him bad. Careak caught a glimpse of one of the Officers; it was a Gelugon, bug eyed and clad in chitinous plate. That was good, the Gelugon police force only operated in Caina.

If he fled to Maladomini, the Seventh Hell, he wouldn't be wanted there. Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, was always prowling the offal of Hell, looking for so much as a hint of Mephistopheles' future plans. It wouldn't take much to get a passport there, if Careak ratted his master out. Though Careak didn't exactly know Mephistopheles personally, he was a reputable figure in Cuspis and was greatly involved with the tower's upperclass.

If Osyluths had been after him on the other hand - red eyed creatures with cadaverous frames and skeletal wings - there would've been nowhere to run. They were the police of the Sovereign herself, and they enforced federal law throughout Hell.

Careak released the fire elemental. Screaming to life, the creature blazed its way through the broken door and towards the Gelugons. "Kill them all!" he shouted at the Hamatulas, and they were quick to obey. The barbed creatures charged the flaming and writhing Gelugons, exulting in the thrill of bloodshed. One Gelugon, its eyes slumping and molten and its carapace blackened by frame, charged towards Careak. Careak relished the opportunity to fence; he lunged with his own sword, and impaled the creature's head through a gore-chocked eyesocket.





Buldumech wrenched backwards, breaking free of Mephistopheles' choking grasp. His arm shot for his sheathed gladius. It took an effort of supreme concentration to summon on the immaterial and bend the material. Fortunately, for all his wrath and all his impatience, concentration was not something Mephistopheles was lacking in. There was a noise like ice cracking and meat squishing.

Icy barbs shot out from Buldumech's sword arm, ripping through muscle and scale alike. The Pitfiend realized what was happening soon enough. Calling on the infernal power of Hell, he launched a torrent of hellfire from the palm of his other arm, drenching the Cold Lord in it.

Flung by an invisible force, Buldumech was hurled into the bar. Made from ice, as with of Cuspis, it shattered like glass. Buldumech found himself lying a pile of broken ice of spilled liquor. A weaker soul might've been too wracked with too pain to fight back. Not Buldumech. He grabbed his gladius and hurled into the fire with all his infernal strength.

Mephistopheles caught it with a flaming hand.




There was only one way out. Careak had no choice; he leapt out on the window, crashing through its thin sheet of ice and tumbling into the unknown. This was what Justicator Bele, perched atop the tower's roof, had been waiting for. He was immediately atop Careak, wrestling with the Cornguon. Bele was faster and stronger. He's spent years honing his skills, tracking down and executing enemies of the state. On the other hand, Careak had spent the years editing a mediocre newspaper with substandard writers.

Furiously flapping his draconic wings, Bele grabbed Careak's neck in the crook of his arm. Careak's envenomed fangs sunk into his biceps, pumping them full of paralyzing neurotoxins. Then, he released the water elemental.

The creature flooded Bele's orifices, drowning him in sentient ooze. It slicked his wings and stun his eyes. Roaring furiously, Bele laid into Careak with his fist. Careak lost teeth. An eyesocket cracked, a shard of bone stabbed into his eye. His jaw popped out of place and his chin fractured.

Bele didn't seem to mind the water, until it started to freeze.

Ice crystallized on his wings.

Suddenly Bele wasn't flying anymore. Rather, he was entering what could best be described as a controlled descent. Careak was frantically flapping his own eyes, while choking through a broken jaw. Bloody spittle clung to his cracked lips. Horror showed in his beady eyes.

Bele shifted so that he was holding Careak in front of himself, like a shield. The editor, whose only sin was publishing an article which misspelled Mephistopheles' name, was held face to face with the rapidly approaching ground. He tried to scream.

my favourite part was the editor. Nice read.

Nicely done, a fun read

His body wreathed in flame and fuming with black smoke, Mephistopheles prowled towards Buldumech.

"Please, my Lord," the Pitfiend stammered, his former bravado naught but a distant memory. "Please."

With a mere thought, Mephistopheles extinguished the flames. The smoke lost color and, heavy with ash, fell from Mephistopheles rather than rising from him. The Cold Lord reached Buldumech; smoke obscured the two of them. It was a brilliant feeling, one that Mephistopheles exalted in. After wading through one conspiracy after another, dealing with espionage, sabotage, and internal intrigue, just barely maintaining the loyalty of twenty conniving and treacherous Pitfiends, it felt good to indulge in straight-forward brutality. He grabbed Buldumech by the throat, and raised the gladius. Mephistopheles, Lord of the Eighth Hell, had been itching for an excuse to do this for a long time.

"NO! DON'T!" shrieked a grating voice. Buldumech's consort, the lithe and beautiful Tier, hurled herself at Mephistopheles.

In a quick stroke of the blade, Mephistopheles slit her throat. The blood, rank like brimstone, stood out brilliantly on the snow white flesh of her neck.

Mephistopheles let the gladius fall to the floor. It clattered against the ice and the noise echoed through the silent bar. Killing Buldumech wouldn't be good enough. More than anything, he wanted to hurt the Pitfiend. He wanted Buldumech to wake up the next day broken and battered, with a newfound respect for the Cold Lord of No Mercy.

He hit the Pitfiend, hard. Something cracked in the Pitfiend's jaw. Bloody spittle clung to Mephistopheles' fist. He hit Buldumech again, and something shifted in the Pitfiend's face. Buldumech looked up at Mephistopheles with pleading eyes. With an aching fist, Mephistopheles nailed Buldumech in the eyesocket. It caved in.

Chapter Two
Freefall In The Dark

It was written in long and flowering print. A careful craftsmanship showed in the way every letter spiraled and curved into the next, a seamless transition. Mephistopheles lost himself in the penmanship, because what the letters spelled out was too much to bear.

NESSIAN OSYLUTH DEPARTMENT - CLASSIFIED AS PART OF CAINAN INVESTIGATION

ARCHDUKE MEPHISTOPHELES (CAINA): My loyal Barons, the time has come to prepare for war. This means you must downplay your respective fief's populations, economic activities, and the like. Evade tithes and taxes, while all the while setting aside resources for our armies. The esteemed Marshal Nexroth will handle the logistics behind this; all you need worry about is getting him what he needs. I understand this will be a grand undertaking, and that it will cost you all greatly. But rest assured, the riches we have to gain are unimaginable.

BARON GULAND (CAINA): I presume we should fortify our fiefs as well.

ARCHDUKE MEPHISTOPHELES (CAINA): I see no need to. If we play our cards right, not one battle will be fought on Cainan soil.

BARON SPHANDOR (CAINA): So we're striking first, then. About time.

BARON KYROTH (CAINA): But why now? Our fiefs are in a state of disrepair, and our armies grievously unmanned.

HERALD TITIVILUS (DIS): Archduke Mephistopheles, may I?

ARCHDUKE MEPHISTOHPELES (CAINA): Certainly, esteemed Herald.

HERALD TITIVILUS (DIS): We, the Devils True, have been in a state of decline for some time. While Beelzebub whittles away at our realms and the unworthy Sovereign consolidates her reign, we can only grow weaker. While Leviathan plunders the souls that rightfully belong to the Archduke Mephistopheles, we can only grow weaker. While Mammon draws the Archduke Dispater, my Lord, further and further into debt, we can only grow weaker. We have no choice; we must fight back now, before we are too weak to fight back at all.

BARON SPHANDOR (CAINA): This isn't just about Beelzebub then. This is about the Sovereign's throne.

ARCHDUKE MEPHISTOPHELES (CAINA): Precisely.

Mephistopheles slumped into his throne, his composure broken. His refined voice, his frozen expression, and the cold way his dead eyes regarded those before him were all lost. In their place was a trembling uncertainty, something wholly alien to the Cold Lord of No Mercy. "What else do they know?" he said.

Justicator Bele, Steward Adonides, and Chamberlain Barbas had all been gathered. None of Caina's Pitfiends had been invited. None even knew of the meeting. Until the matter could be resolved Mephistopheles had gone into seclusion, attended on by only his most trusted advisers.

"From what I can tell, everything," said Adonides. His youthful features belied his ancient nature, and the bitterness that festered beneath his facade of eager loyalty. While the corpulent Barbas managed Mephistopheles' day-to-day affair, Adonides managed the security of Caina itself. His position was a prestigious one, and one he didn't take lightly.

"They plan to make an example of you," Barbas said. "The Osyluths feel they aren't getting the respect they deserve, and that's why they're going after you. If they do manage to get a guilty verdict - they'll throw the book at you. Guland turning informant coincides with the Sovereign's armies mustering, and her calling the Archdukes to council. From what I can she's going to announce new powers being granted to the Osyluths."

Bele grinned darkly. "My lord," he said. "We'll take care of this. With some persuasion, I'm sure Guland can be made into double agent. And once we find out the identities of the judges; I'm sure they can be persuaded towards leniency."

"How long until council?"

"Nine days," Barbas was quick to answer.

"Alright. Bele and Adonides, persuade Guland. Barbas, I want to know everything about the judges. Nothing is too trivial."





Each of the twenty Barons ruled over a sizable fief, an endless patch of barren ice with an imposing tower at its center. Though none of these towers rivaled Cuspis in size, they still housed hundreds of thousands of Devils.

Guland's abode was an extravagant mansion at the top of his tower, built with unparalleled finery. Icy chandeliers, tapestries, statues, spiraling staircases, and grand dining halls were the norm. Each and every room was swarming with Spinagon butlers, who were careful to appear extremely busy, lest their master assign them even more work.

Ghostly flames flickered from torches on the walls, giving the mansion a ghastly green glow.

Bele pounded furiously on the door to Guland's chambers. "OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!" he bellowed. Some of the Spinagons looked on nervously. "DO YOU WANT ME TO BREAK IT DOWN?"

Guland threw it open. He was huge and imposing, like any Pitfiend, but over the years he had taken on a softer appearance. His face was round and eyes puffy, and his huge gut stood out glaringly. The Baron wore purple and gold evening robes. "What?" he said.

"Steward Adonides found three spies, members of the Order of the Fly, patrolling the outskirts of Caina. One claimed it was one of your servants, Galuk."

"So?" Guland spat.

"We'd like you to identify him," Adonides said.

"Can't you just kill him?"

"We'd like you to identify him," Bele said. "Come with us."




The carriage was drawn by two flaming Nightmares. Bele, who unlike the other aristocrats of Caina had never deigned such work below him, sat as the coachman, a whip in one hand and the reins in the other. Adonides sat beside Guland, lounging on a plush leather seat. "You hear about Craskii?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Bele. "Wasn't Belial.... ahem, Lord Belial of the Fourth, planing to execute her?"

"Well after all the money she took, of course he was. But she's still alive."

"What?" Bele said. "You can't be serious."

"Well, Belial called Craskii in for a meeting. You know, to justify the execution, leave a proper-looking papertrail. So she heard that Belial has that... erm.... how do I phrase this? Foot fixation, I guess. So she comes in barefoot. Belial is stuttering like an idiot. He starts to recover, and just as he's starting to talk about the missing finances, she asks, 'Can I put my feet up?' And then she puts her feet up on the table, right in front of him," Adonides said. "Belial just blabbers like an idiot for the next half hour and completely forgets about killing her."

Guland shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Alright, here we are," said Bele. The chariot ground to a halt. Guland looked around, and saw only ice. Everything clicked.

"Don't kill me," Guland said. The words came out in a strangled cry. "I didn't tell them anything!" Adonides grabbed Guland by the neck and hauled him out of the chariot. The Pitfiend stumbled on the ice, barely maintaining his footing. "I didn't tell them anything! I swear! On the Throne of Hell, I swear!"

Adonides threw Guland to the ground. "DON'T KILL ME!"

"May I do the honors?" Bele asked.

"Certainly," said Adonides.

With a lopsided grin and a psychotic gleam in his eyes, Bele drew a metal baton. Whimpering, Guland crossed his arms before his face. A quick blow to the wrist sent Guland scrambling for cover. His wings flapped furiously, straining to lift his huge bulk. Bele struck him in the back in the throat, sending him to the ground in a heap. He roared, and launched a frenzy of mad blows. Again and again the baton met the Pitfiend's flesh, bruising muscle and cracking bone. Fighting without any grace, Bele relied only on crazed strength.

"Alright," Adonides said. Frozen blood was crystallizing on Guland. "That's enough."

Bele took a step back, and sheathed the baton. "I'm not sure our informant friend here has learned his lesson. How about we take him apart at the joints? Or maybe we should get to work on his face, change his looks around a little bit."

"Please... no more..." Guland gasped for breath. "Please."

"Alright, here's what you're going to do if you want to live," said Adonides, leaning over Guland. "You're going to work for us, not the Osyluths. You tell them only what we want you to. And the first thing we want you to tell them is that the conversation between Lord Mephistopheles and you Barons never happened. He never told you to avoid taxes. He never told you to set aside armies. Understand?"

"I'm n-not..... not an idiot," the Pitfiend spat. "I never told them about that. Never told them about anything important. I've been pinning everything on Barbas."

"Chamberlain Barbas?"

"Who else?"

Adonides turned to Bele. "Should we tell him?"

"No," snapped Bele. "Its better that he takes the fall than us."

"Wait." Adonides reared on Guland. "If you didn't tell them about the meeting, who did?"

"How should I know? Hundreds of people were there... I'm not the only informant in Hell."

I don't believe I actually missed this!!!This is AWESOME!!!(tbh as is most of your work but what do I know? I am just a fanboy ) Keep it up man!

One day I will find your place of home, break into your hous and steal your extra large sized jugs of aweomsauce you must be keeping under lock and key.Well done

It was nice to see the mask of the Duke slip just for a second and finally reveal his inner thoughts.

Plots in plots, ah the stink of politcs

Anymore to hear from the mortal realm?

Didn't like the foot bit personally, but great story btw.

Well done!!! I gotta say this is really a great read!! As usual!

Hutijin's exact role in the politics of Caina was unclear. He held no formal positions nor ranks, and though he answered to no masters he could call on no underlings. Officially he was little more than a wandering vagrant, with no possessions save the clothes on his back and the barbed trident in hand.

He was Pitfiend. His scales were a burnished black-red, like blood and soot. Hutijin's face was less slanted than other Pitfiends', and his jaw not as quite as over-sized. This gave him a disturbing human quality that the other reptilian Pitfiends lacked.

"Lord Mephistopheles," he said, regarding with Sovereign with dispassionate, ice-blue eyes. "We have urgent matters to discuss."

Mephistopheles, from atop his dais, ignored Hutijin and gazed straight towards his own bodyguard, the Dragon Adraxus. "Why did you let him in?" he said, his voice lying on the verge of a wolf's snarling.

The Dragon, wallowing in a state of perpetual fatigue, didn't even bother to look at his master. It was hard to imagine the creature taking the initiative to kill Mephistopheles, let alone leave his comfortable abode and negotiate with a being as a hostile and paranoid as Baron Silcharde. Still, the duplicitous Dragon had managed it. "Hutijin is the Lord of the Barons," it said. "And an esteemed guest of your realm. It would do him a great dishonor to bar him from your throne room."

Only the destitute masses of Caina, toiling in the packed lower levels of Caina's towers, referred to Hutijin as the Lord of the Barons. He had a cult of personality among them. They saw the respect he, an outsider to Cainan politics, a Devil with no noble blood, commanded. They sought to act as he did, dealing in torture, extortion, and murder without fearing retribution. He was an inspiration to them all.

Even if they title they had bestowed upon him was inaccurate, it had an element of truth to him. By their own free-will, the twenty Barons of Caina answered to him first and Mephistopheles second. Hutijin could be described as a union foreman, keeping the Barons united and negotiating on their behalf.

"Two of my Barons," Hutijin said. "Were brutally assaulted yesterday. One, Buldumech, by your hands. And the other, Guland, by your lackey, the Justicator Bele."

"Buldumech violated one of Queen Baftis' Erinyes and, in doing-so, betrayed Caina. Guland is an informant, and he's been feeding information about the realm of Caina to Osyluths."

"We're not here to discuss the alleged moral lapses of Buldumech and Guland, who, might I add, rallied behind you even during the Dies Iraes. What we're here to discuss," said the Pitfiend. "Is the fact that you have, directly or by proxy, assaulted them to the point of causing permanent injury. This is unacceptable."

"I'll humor you. What do you suppose I should do about this?"

"A public apology would be the obvious answer, but that would be far from enough to mend their wounds. In addition to a public apology, the two would both require financial restitution."

"They're rich," Mephistopheles said. "If there's no thing they don't need, its more of my money to waste."

"So you have no qualms with a public apology?"

"Hardly. I won't apologize for punishing informants and traitors."

"So," said Hutijin. "You're unwilling to apologize or offer financial restitution, and you're unwilling to compromise on any of these matters."

"That about sums it up."

Hutijin sighed. He paced back and forth, head low. After a few seconds of tension, he rounded on Mephistopheles. "I hate to blunt with you, your grace. But this has to be brought to your attention. You're being called to Nessus for a Council of the Archdukes, whether you like it or not. And in your absence, Queen Baftis and the Barons rule. You've successfully alienated them all. Do you really want to leave, knowing that when you come back there might not be a place for you in Caina anymore? It would be a unanimous and bloodless coup."

Mephistopheles pondered killing the insolent creature on the spot.

"Of course, Lord Mephistopheles, if you make amends with the Barons, even just a few of them, it could secure a spot for you on this throne," Hutijin said. "Guland will make a full recovery. But Buldumech... you know what you've done to him. His jaw was pushed back an inch to the right. Both his cheekbones were fractured. He's blind in one eye, after you destroyed the eyesocket. His physicians saw that he could be a stuttering, drooling, demented freak of a Devil for the rest of his life."

"I don't think any amount of money could fix that."

"But it could help him forget." Hutijin bowed low. "That was all, your grace. Thank you for hearing me out."




Buldumech's face was held together by a rusted metal frame, and wrapped almost completely in bandages. He wore an eyepatch of black leather. His one remaining eye glared straight ahead, twitching erratically. The Pitfiend lay complete naked, lounging in a shallow pool of grey-green water. It was a sickly smelling cocktail of healing oils, unholy water, and Naga blood.

"I talked to him," Hutijin said, considering his words carefully. "He's willing to consider a public apology, and financial restitution. But he didn't guarantee anything. I'm sorry I couldn't get more out of him."

Buldumech furiously thrashed his fist in the murky water, splashing a nearby attendant.

"To strong-arm him into doing anything would provoke him. I've already pushed him farther than I'd have liked to," said Hutijin. "We just need to wait him out. He's a fading power, and us - we're ascendant. So here's what you do. Spread this to the other Barons. Bunker down. Consolidate your fiefs. Make it so that he can't remove you from power without a fight." He glanced at a nearby clock. "Forgive me for leaving so early, but I must speak with Guland."

He turned away from Buldumech, and moved towards the window. Hutijin pulled back the silky curtains, and pried it open.

It was a long flight to Guland's abode, but he made good pace. The brisk air felt good running past his wings. Flying was the only way Hutijin knew to shake off the creeping malaise that threatened to dominate his persona. Dealing with Archdukes made him feel uneasy. One day he might find himself choking as a garrote was pulled taunt round his throat. Maybe one day he might find himself screaming in pain as a long, slender blade slid into his back. The worst deaths belonged to those nobles poisoned at feasts; it was never dignified. Gasping for air from a swollen throat, pounding your fist on the table, your eyes bright with fear.

Flying let him forget, if only for a few moments, all about that. It let him forget that there was only one way out of diabolical politics. He could soar over the endless frozen wastes of Caina, admiring the sheer scale of Hell.

He arrived as Guland's abode. A hunched Malebranche informed him that Guland was absent, and it was unknown when or if he would return.




He had Baftis by the hair. Mephistopheles wrenched her up and down again and again, bobbing her head about his crotch. "More tongue," he said. She acknowledged him with a grunt.

Mephistopheles sat in his throne, legs splayed. Beads of sweat clung to thin form. His chest rose and fell with each hard breath. He held his head high, and his eyelids were clenched tight with euphoric pleasure. Involuntarily his body tensed and nearly spasmed as Baftis quickened her pace.

The shameful itch rose in his crotch until it reached an explosive crescendo. All of Mephistopheles' energy was drained from him. In mere seconds, euphoria faded to high-strung restlessness.

Baftis wiped her lips on the back of her hand. "Baby," she said. "Was it good for you?"

Mephistopheles settled into his throne. He pulled his breeches up, and ran a hand through his greying hair.

"Baby?" Baftis repeated. "You okay?"

He nodded. "I have work to do, regarding the Barons."

"You thought about the Barons during it?"

"I have some thinking to do," Mephistopheles said. "Could you leave?"

"I just got here!"

"And now you're done. Could you kindly leave?"

"What's wrong with you? Is that all you think of me as?" Mephistopheles nodded. Arms rigid at her sides, she stormed out. Her stiletto heels clicked on the icy floor.

Mephistopheles was left sitting alone in his throne room, with nothing but the stillness and coldness all around him.




The Osyluth's name was Jarec. It was a cadaverous looking creature with taunt grey skin and eyes that swam with blood. The skeletal frames of wings jutted from its back. It wore small round spectacles, as if in mockery of mortal intellectuals. Jarec's gnashing teeth were a shade of brown-yellow, and its breath rank of grave soil.

"Well Guland," it said, its voice sickly and wet. "What do you have for us today?"

"Chamberlain Barbas still runs things," said Guland. "Lord Mephistopheles is with us in body, but not in spirit. He doesn't care for the politics of Caina, or even Hell as a whole. Barbas though - he and Marshall Nexroth are coordinating tax evasion on a massive scale to fund their treasonous army. Their diverting tithes that should go to the Blood War to their own private army instead."

"Not good, Guland. Not good."

"What?"

"Our other informant disagrees with you. Lord Mephistopheles, despite isolating himself to Cuspis, is still ruling Caina. Chamberlain Barbas, Steward Adonides, and Justicator Bele regularly meet with him, and he rules through the three of them."

"They only go there to help ease his paranoia. They feed him lies."

"And how do you know that?" Jarec removed his spectacles.

"Adonides told me."

Jarec nodded. "Hmm. Did he tell that when he beat you? When he and Justicator Bele nearly killed you? It isn't a particularly well kept secret what they've done to you, after all the complaining you did about it. We're considering dropping you as an informant, and stripping you of your immunity from prosecution. I don't care what Adonides and Bele do to you, just don't lie to us."

Guland swallowed. "...I want a lawyer."




Barbas returned to Cuspis, looking more haggard than usual. "Well?" Mephistopheles said.

"I'm sorry, your grace. I couldn't find anything. The judges either haven't been appointed yet, or their appointment has been kept utterly secret. I don't know their names... I don't know anything."

Mephistopheles adjusted his collar with trembling fingers. His hands moved to his armrests, which he clenched with all his strength. "Kill Baftis. I don't care how its down, just, get rid of her. Before the council."

"Yes, your grace. Will that be all?"

"No, I need something else too. I want to have a meeting with all of the high-ranking military personal of Caina. Nexroth, Kelveron, Raithetarkon.... all of them. We have important things to discuss."

A totally believable world you have created, well done. Now give us war with the wails of the dying and the joyful cries of the feasting carrion birds.

Yes war could work. but I find myself enjoying the intrigue a bit more Keep it up m8!

I don't see war in this story for another couple of chapters yet as there are a few more plots and backstabings to come yet me thinks.

Two Hamatulas, charcoal-skinned creatures with barbed flesh and hunched backs, entered the anteroom. It was lavishly decorated, with golden tapestries and plush leather couches. An adamantine door stood at the end of a chamber, and a muscular Cornugon beside it. The Cornugon, smoking from a long and thin mahogany pipe, looked up disinterestedly at the two Hamatulas.

One, Mutum, was carrying a roll of filthy carpet, and had a variety of sheathed daggers dangling from its belt. The other, Stultior, held a garrote, a length of wire with a wooden handle at each end.

"You gonna let us in?" Mutum asked.

"Do you have an appointment?" said the Cornugon, its voice low and baritone. The creature folded its muscular arms.

"Open the damn door."

The Cornugon paused, and exhaled deeply. Rich smoke rose from the pipe. "Leave the jewelry when you're done with her," it said, pulling the door open. "It's my fee."

Queen Baftis' quarters were no less luxurious than the anteroom. A chandelier of pure sapphire hung from the ceiling, glinting in the chamber's pale green ghost-light. On her dresser lay a collection of brilliant rings, recently purchased at an auction. The rich green of the emerald gems were meant to contrast with the pale white of the platinum band, and in doing-so draw the eye's attention. Why Baftis needed so many was anyone's guess. Her canopy bed was made with fine-threaded sheets and heavy fur quilts, and half-obscured by gauzy curtains. The pillows were stuffed with goose feathers.

The two Hamatulas sat atop the bed, and pulled the curtains shut. Soon Baftis would return. Until then the assassins would sit, and they would wait.




As a general rule, Amnizus were dim witted creatures. The bloated things were the closest Hell had to a middle class, serving as bureaucrats, salesmen, accountants, and the like. Despite their slow, ponderous way of thinking, Amnizus had near perfect memories and uncanny ability to memorize things. If an Amnizu went long enough without being promoted to a Hamatula, it could take in enough information to become a surprisingly intelligent creature.

Kraeil, a licensed defense attorney and practitioner of the law, was one of those creatures.

He had poured over law books, ancient tomes, and the most tedious of legal documentation for centuries, and had nearly memorized all the laws of Hell. His cluttered office was piled with these books, and stank of incense. Kraeil, who resembled a heap of wrinkled fat with arms, legs, and a head on top, was sipping from a goblet of wine. Guland, who was sitting opposite of him, was downing the entire bottle.

"I'm charging you for that," Kraeil said.

Guland said nothing.

The door came creaking open. Mephistopheles, flanked by Justicator Bele and Steward Adonides, prowled inside. Compared to the two Devils, broad shouldered and heavily muscled, Mephistopheles looked near-emaciated. With his slender frame, greying hair, and the dark bags that hung under his cold eyes, Mephistopheles was clearly a being past his prime. He held a three pronged trident in his hand, slicked with frozen blood. It was a keen reminder that, for even in his old age, he was not a figure to be trifled with. Kraeil rose to shake Mephistopheles' hand.

"Kneel," said Mephistopheles, in a sharp-edged voice that would allow for no question.

Kraeil was quick to abase himself, going to his knees and prostrating himself before the Cold Lord. He touched his hands and forehead to the filthy carpeting, a gesture of utter reverence.

"Better." Mephistopheles looked down on Guland, who seemed to shrink under his gaze. "You too. Show some respect for your betters."

Guland fell to his knees. "Your grace, Archduke Mephistopheles, I-"

"When I want you to speak, I will call on you to speak. Kraeil, what's going on here?"

"Well," said Kraeil. "Baron Guland has been an informant for several days, an exceedingly short period of time. He's been careful with what he's been giving the Osyluths, and he's been pinning the majority of your regime's crimes on Chamberlain Barbas and Marshall Nexroth, seeing as most important decisions go through them. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. The Osyluths have presented Baron Guland with a dilemma - testify against you, or go on trial himself."

"Barbas?" The Archduke rounded on Guland, and in that moment towered over him. "Did I hear Kraeil correct? Did you blame Chamberlain Barbas?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"You did have a choice - you could have chosen to keep your mouth shut. You could've stood trial like a man, or slit your throat, or fled Hell, or down anything else besides turn witness! At least if you'd killed yourself you'd be remembered as a proud and honorable Pitfiend, and not a fecking disgrace!"

He let the silence linger before speaking again.

"Barbas keeps track of all financial transfers, and messages delivered and sent from my abode. Nexroth manages the logistics of our military, including illegally massing private forces that are supposed to belong to the Sovereign's Ministry. They both have evidence, in writing, of what we've done. And now, thanks to you, the Osyluths have probable cause to search them. And now we know for sure that they're going to be indicted too."

Kraeil took in a breath, as if about to speak, but cut himself off.

"What?"

"Well, what am I to do with Baron Guland? I mean, I am his attorney, and I don't want to make any decisions without your, ahem, express approval," Kraeil said, adjusting his collar.

"If I were to kill him, could the Osyluths charge me with interfering with a federal investigation?"

"He's a vassal of yours; you have the right to do what you will with him."

Roaring, Guland lunged onto Kraeil. He toppled the attorney's desk, scattering papers, used smoldering cigars, and cheap incense about the floor. Two pots of ink were emptied as well, the ink soaking into the dull red carpeting. Kraeil found himself lying on his back, squirming beneath the huge Pitfiend. Guland's hands found Kraeil's throat, and the attorney let out a series of dry, choking gasps for breath.

With an air of calm professionalism about them, Adonides and Bele each grabbed Guland by an arm and pried him back. Guland managed to drag Kraeil with him for a few feet, twisting and pulling in a desperate attempt to break his attorney's neck. It was then that fire flared behind Kraeil's desk.

The ink he had used, much like everything else in his office, was cheap. And, as with all cheap inks, it was highly flammable.

Mephistopheles thrust his trident into Guland's abdomen. Its prongs slid past his burnished red scales, skewered the creature's intestines, and impaled the Pitfiend to the wall. Guland's eyes went wide. The pain in his roiling, bloody gut paralyzed him. All he could do was look on.

The raging flames were crawling up the walls and blackening the ceiling. Kraeil's library was in the process of being devoured, with the burning bookcases collapsing on themselves. Thick black smoke blanketed the raging inferno, sending Kraeil into a furious coughing fit.

Mephistopheles wrenched the trident back from Guland. The Pitfiend fell to his knees. His gut was slicked with dirty blood, and the blood was spilling out onto his legs. He looked up and saw Mephistopheles walking away at a brisk pace, Adonides and Bele close behind him. The Archduke was tense. Fire always bothered him.

Guland reveled in this small victory before succumbing to his wounds.




Baftis wore a dress of fine green silk, long enough so that it trailed after her. Its low-cut top drew the eye to her impressive cleavage, as was the fashion in Caina. Her necklace was was a pale green jade hanging from a thin chain of fine platinum. It matched her earrings.

"Inform the Baron that I'll be ready in a moment," she said as she strolled into her chambers.

Two Spinagons were careful to close the twin doors behind her. When Baftis desired solitude, it was unwise to disagree.

She approached an icy desk. A mirror was mounted on the wall above it, allowing Baftis to bask in her own beauty. The desk itself was scattered with make-up and jewelry, worth more gold than most Devils would ever see in their lives. A Devil could live its entire life without earning enough to afford so much as one of Baftis' rings.

Baftis slid open a drawer, and removed a small silver chest from it. She undid its golden clasps and opened it. Inside was no more than a few ounces of a fine grey-white powder. Carefully, the Queen scooped up some with the nail of her index finger, and brought it up to her nose. After properly savoring its rich scent, she inhaled it all with an unladylike snort. If she hadn't been focusing on the powder, she might've caught a glimpse of the Hamatula in the corner of the mirror stalking towards her.

Stultior slowly paced towards her. The key to walking silently was to step heel first, and roll one's foot forward from heel to toe. Having mastered the technique, Stultior descended on Baftis soundlessly. In one smooth motion he looped the garrote around her throat and pulled it taunt. The wire pressed into the soft white flesh of her neck, eliciting a dry gasp for breath. She grasped at her throat.

Already, Mutum had burst into action. He grabbed a metal coat rack and slid it through the doors' brass handles, barring the twin doors. Just to be sure, he locked them too. As Stultior struggled with Baftis, he grabbed and unrolled the carpet that he'd brought with him. It was little more than a sheet of leather, thick enough to prevent any unsightly stains from soaking through. Stultior dragged her towards it.

Thrashing with a strength born of desperation and fear, Baftis' stiletto heel came down on Stultior's foot. It nearly impaled it, spilling the Hamatula's inky blood. "Fecking bitch," Stultior snarled, limping and stumbling towards the carpet. Baftis' face had gone a pale blue.

They reached the carpet. Drawing a long and slender blade, Mutum launched into a mad frenzy of attacks. Again and again the blade met and slid through flesh. Baftis' dress, having been soaked with blood, had gone an ugly brown color and clung to her chest. Though her thrashing had ceased, she was still twitching and shuddering. The Queen, for whatever reason, refused to die. Finally, with one last strike to the chest, she fell limp.

Stultior relaxed the garrote, and Baftis fell sprawling to the floor. Her face, motionless in death, was locked in the wide-eyed expression of pure and utter terror. "That," said Mutum, resting a hand on his chest and breathing heavily. "That could've gone better."

"Feck," said Stultior. "I got blood on the floor."

"Tear off some of Baftis' dress and wrap up your foot. I'll clean up the stains," Mutum said.

"With what?"

Grinning, Mutum grabbed a tin of make-up from Baftis' desk and held it up. The powdery make-up was the same porcelain white as the carpet. Mutum bent over and dusted the stains with it; it clung to the Hamatula's inky blood, easily masking it. "What would you ever do without me?" said Mutum.

"Well, I wouldn't have to share every paycheck with you for starters," Stultior said. He dragged Baftis' corpse to the edge of the carpet and rolled it up. Not so much as a drop of blood had soaked through. To the untrained eye, the Hamatula had just brought an especially thick carpet with him.

Mutum meanwhile had turned to rooting through the desk's various drawers. At last he found one where his own collection of knives wouldn't look suspicious. The drawer contained an immaculate crossbow, embedded with priceless diamonds, and a sacrificial knife with a blade of wickedly sharp emerald. "Gimme your garrote," he said. Stultior handed the weapon to him, and he stuffed it into the drawer alongside his knives.

"Are we ready?"

Mutum nodded. "We're ready."

Together, the two unbarred and unlocked the twin doors. Stultior lifted the carpet up and threw it over his shoulder. After checking to make sure blood wasn't leaking out its either end, Mutum opened the doors.

A Pitfiend sat on one of the couches, with two Gelugon bodyguards flanking it. Several Erinyes accompanied them, feathery winged angelic-seeming Devils with a small red horn protruding above each brow. Fuming with impatience, the Pitfiend leapt to his feet. "Is Baftis ready yet?" it nearly shouted.

"The Queen will be ready in a moment," Mutum said, while Stultior closed the doors behind them.

The Pitfiend shrank back into his seat, still glaring at the two Hamatulas. Casually, Mutum and Stultior strolled straight past him and exited the anteroom.

Who ever knew hell could be so interesting, what with the legality, quirky humour, backstabings and assassinations. Nice work.

My favourite bit was from when the two Hamatula's killed the coke head queen and them talking about the blood on the floor.

Hahaha I'm sorry but Mutum and Stultior are really great characters! I find them really hilarious! Please more!

The Council of the Archdukes was in two days, but the ride to Nessus was a long one. Even using the quickest route he had access to, it would take hours by chariot and even longer by carriage. Several Archdukes, mainly those who resided in the upper tiers of Hell, far away from the dark pit of Nessus, had already set off. Fortunately for Mephistopheles, Caina was the second furthest deep of the Perditions, and was closer to Nessus than any other. He had more time to prepare his realm and get his affairs in order than any other Archduke.

He sat on his throne, wearing a carefully cultivated mask of passionless boredom. Before Mephistopheles, stood Titivilus, the Nuncio and Herald of the Archduke Dispater. Titivilus was a thin being, whose long robes flowed about his slender frame. Leathery bat-wings protruded from his back, sticking out through two small slits in his clothing. His face was round looking, with an unclear jawline and soft features. Though his scalp was bald, Titivilus had a thin mustache and a sharp goatee. Off to the side was Barbas, busy filling out paperwork and seemingly ignoring the conversation. The Dragon Adraxus, Mephistopheles' thoroughly disloyal bodyguard, lay halfway curled around Mephistopheles' throne, sleeping soundly.

"Salutations your grace, 'O noble Archduke of Caina," Titivilus said, offering a low curtsy. "I bring tidings from the Archduke Dispater, your ever-loyal compatriot of the Devils True."

"Speak," said Mephistopheles.

"In the minutes before the yesteryear's council, while the Archdukes were seated in an anteroom and made to wait for the Sovereign, there was a conversation, something most unexpected and thoroughly unright. Archdukes are to be silent in the Sovereign's Palace," said Titivilus. "Alas, in this day and age, there is nothing to prevent such a conversation from occurring again. My master, Archduke Dispater, is of the belief that, in the event conversation should break out again, we of the Devils True will abstain from speaking, as is courteous and proper."

"I agree. Will that be all?"

"Yes, your grace, that is all." Titivilus grinned. "The Devils in Caina speak strangely. You say so much with so little, weaving entire novels from only a few words."

"Thank you, Titivilus. Send your master my warmest regards."

"Ah, yes, the Cold Lord of No Mercy sends his warmest regards," said Titivilus, walking towards the door. "Farewell, 'O noble Archduke of Caina."

He slipped out the door. As Titivilus left, the Marshall Nexroth entered. While Titivilus was thin and frail, the Marshall was huge and imposing. He was a Pitfiend, with red-copper scales burnished to a brilliant hue and piercing blue eyes. In Caina, the Marshall held more power than none save Mephistopheles himself. He was the head of the Department of Militaristic Affairs, and managed the logistics and accounting of Caina's military. He had manipulated this power with the finesse of a true politician, and had risen to serve as Caina's unofficial commander-in-chief.

Nexroth bowed before Mephistopheles, then turned towards Barbas. "Chamberlain Barbas, leave us," he said in a soft baritone.

Barbas said, "But-" and Nexroth cut him off.

"I've already asked you politely." He rested his hand on the ivory pommel of his sheathed rapier. "Leave us."

Doing his best to maintain a dignified composure, Barbas gathered up a stack of paperwork and stood up from his desk. He looked up at Mephistopheles expectantly, but the Archduke did nothing to intervene. Sighing, Barbas left the room.

"Look at that," said Nexroth, only after Barbas had closed the door. "He's pathetic. A real Devil wouldn't stand for treatment like that."

Mephistopheles was a natural ruler, as God had willed him to be in the Days of Yore. The mannerisms of power came effortlessly to him: a head held high, a commanding and imposing voice, and cold eyes staring down on those before him. Nexroth though - Nexroth was a lowborn. God had no guiding hand in his creation. Like all lowborns, he was a product of the mortal soul broken by death, and refined into something more by Hell itself. Command didn't come naturally to him. Tics of emotion showed in what should've been a still face. Nexroth had to consciously steady his voice, and it took all his willpower to hold eye-contact with Mephistopheles.

For all his false bravado, Caina's commander-in-chief was still a lowborn at heart.

"Is that what this is about?" said Mephistopheles. "You aren't the first person to have a quarrel with Chamberlain Barbas, nor will you be the last."

"It goes deeper than that," Nexroth said. "Do you remember what you did to Baron Buldumech? He had a quarrel with your Queen Baftis - who I might add has going missing in the past few days. Instead of reasoning with Buldumech, as civilized Devils should, you ambushed and brutally beat him at a public event. His jaw is realigning incorrectly - he may never speak again.

"Hutijin came to Cuspis earlier, and already spoke to me of this. I'm not offering the Pitfiends of Caina any restitution nor apologies. I am the Archduke of Caina, and you are my vassals. I have the right to do as I please with you."

"With all due respect," said Nexroth. "It was a long-trip from the borders to Cuspis, and waiting for an audience with you took even longer still. I'm not leaving until I've said what I've had to say."

"You must think I'm not due much respect."

Nexroth cleared his throat. "Do you know what message you sent when you attacked Buldumech? You told all of Caina that you're incapable of acting rationally, and that you're incapable of reasoning with your opponents. This message may not be true, but the nobility of Caina have embraced it none the less. No one wants to be the bearer of bad news anymore, fearing what you might do to them. Your own servants, Barbas included, are withholding things from you. There are some issues in Caina that I believe need your attention, and that no one seems to be willing to bring to you."

"Well?"

"The military we're building up is, as you know, very much illegal. Assuming it belongs to the government of Caina, it violates several treaties. Assuming it belongs to you personally, a private citizen, it violates a variety of rigidly enforced laws. Considering the money and resources we're putting into it, we can't flat-out deny its existence. Instead, I have to write-off its existence as other things. The siege-vessels are windmills, and the trebuchets are horse-drawn plows. Our soldiers are actually farmers, janitors, and police-officers. The fact is, if anyone looks past the surface, its blatantly obvious what we're doing. And with the rumored indictments coming up, the Federal Osyluths will almost certainly look past the surface."

"I'm aware of this. One of my legal councilors has stated that, while the Osyluths will indeed be attempting to break new ground and imprison an Archduke, the Sovereign may hold them back. We are strong, and the Sovereign may very well hold the Osyluths back. She knows that the Archdukes will be, in secret, consolidating their own power and rearming their armies whether its legal or not. She may try to appease us, fearing an all out rebellion much like in the Dies Irae."

"The Sovereign won the Dies Irae. What makes your councilor think that she won't shy away from another conflict to prove her own strength?"

"She only won the [/i]Dies Irae[i] because the public was on her side. Now she's loathed. Under her leadership, Hell's strength has only diminished. Even the lowliest of Devils can see that."

"That brings us to another issue. Public support is turning against you. Look at Caina - its a barren wasteland. Nothing but ice. We don't have valuable iron ores to be mined, forests to be cleared, or anything of the like. Our sole resource is souls, and its fading. Now that the second Cold Lord, Leviathan, has risen to power, our profits have been cut in half. Half of all the cold merciless souls that should be going to Caina are instead going to Stygia. The economy is slumping as a result, we're importing drastically more than we're deporting, and even the average worker can see that he's poorer than ever before. The common people look at you, and they see a failure of an Archduke who led his realm into ruin. That isn't true, but that's what they see."

"And what do you propose I do?"

"Invade Stygia. Cast down Leviathan and take back what's ours."




Barbas disliked his private office. Every second he was away from Mephistopheles was a second that Mephistopheles could be conspiring against him. He had plenty of enemies in Caina, like Nexroth. Powerful enemies that could poisoning Mephistopheles against him.

The office was dim, and stacked with paperwork. Barbas liked to keep records of things. The more information he had on Devils, the better. He rifled through a cabinet, scanning for the file he was looking for. Mutum and Stultior looked on impatiently.

"Marshall Nexroth," said Barbas. "Has shown me a great deal of disrespect. He needs to be taught a lesson."

"Absolutely," said Mutum.

Barbas snatched the file he was looking for. "Unfortunately, we can't straight-out kill Nexroth. Over-retaliation like that never gets anyone anywhere. We still need to hurt him though. And, as I understand, he's very fond of his wife."

"Want me to seduce her?" Mutum said.

"No. I want you to kill her. Her name is Annette, and she's staying in Nexroth's command tent at the Bargial military base. She's a dark-skinned Erinyes with especially long horns and white irises. Should be easy to recognize." Barbas closed the file. "After he's finished his audience with Mephistopheles, he'll be returning to the base. You need to get there first, kill Annette, and leave. Her body needs to be there, waiting for him."




"It's been proposed before," Mephistopheles said. "I've turn it down before. Stygia is well fortified, and we don't have easy access to it. Assuming we somehow manage to overthrow Leviathan, we would be giving the Sovereign irrefutable evidence of our... illegal and moral lapses. And there would undoubtedly be outrage from the other Archdukes. Lilith and Belial have both had their eyes on Stygia for a long time, and wouldn't be happy at being denied their prize."

"Things have changed since it was last proposed. The Archduchess Lilith, blessed be her name, has expressed her openness towards an alliance. She's one of the Devils True, and a powerful one too," Nexroth said. "What if I told you that we wouldn't be claiming Stygia for you. We'd be claiming it for Lilith. She gives you access to Stygia, and simultaneously prevents Beelzebub from intervening. You overthrow Leviathan, and then you hand things off to Lilith. You'd be forging an alliance and removing one of your most powerful rivals from the scene. I've already spoken to the Archduchess Lilith, and she's very receptive towards the idea."

"You've thought this through, Marshall," said Mephistopheles. "I want proof, in writing, of every claim you've made here. Secondly, I want an audience with the Generals of Caina. If what you've said is true, and the Generals believe we can eliminate Leviathan, then congratulations. You've got yourself a war."




Nexroth's command tent was luxurious. The icy ground was matted with thick carpeting, dyed with priceless violet ink. In addition to bringing a king-sized bed with him, Nexroth had also brought his private library and his rare weapons collection. In large glass case lay diamond-edged rapiers, gold plated shields, and a longsword hewn from a solid block of emerald. The tent itself was spun from golden thread. In its far right corner was even a porcelain bathtub, large enough to accommodate a Pitfiend and his wife.

Mutum pulled back the door. "Lady Annette?" he said, cautiously peering inside.

"Yes?" said an Erinyes. She was incredibly thin, but still very much well-endowed. Her skin was a creamy olive shade, and her very much revealing white dress was a stark contrast to it. Long spiraling horns jutted from just above her brows. Lady Annette, Consort of the Esteemed Marshal Nexroth, was a sight to behold.

"We're here with a message for you, from Chamberlain Barbas. It's regarding your husband."

This was true in more ways than one. Barbas actually had written out a message for Annette, and had also given Mutum and Stultior the proper paperwork and identification required for messengers. It was the only reason they had been able to get past the camp's security.

"Come inside," said Annette. "Can I get you boys anything to drink? It must've been a long ride out from Cuspis."

"That would be great," Mutum said, handing her the message. "You get a really nice place here. I like the, umm, architecture of it."

"Thank you. We were going to just have a normal tent, but Nexroth practically insisted on bringing his entire house with him." She stood with her back to the Hamatulas, pouring a glass of wine. "You know how Pitfiends are."

"Amen."

In one smooth motion, Stultior looped the garrote around her throat and pulled it taut. Annette spilled the wine; it stained her dress. His biceps huge and tensed, throbbing with veins, Stultior dragged Annette back from her pantry. Her eyes were bright with the most vivid terror she'd ever felt. She grasped at her throat as all Stultior's victims did, occasionally letting out a dry choking gasp for breath. While Annette struggled with Stultior, Mutum descended on her.

Holding his knife in a reverse-grip, Mutum stabbed her left breast. The blade sunk into her flesh, right into the throbbing meat of her heart. Mutum wrenched the blade back, and was misted with blood. It came cascading out, matting her dress to her flesh and spilling all over herself. Stultior was still pulling with all his strength on the garrote, contorting Annette's throat into an hourglass shape.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her struggling ceased. Annette trembled for a few seconds before finally falling limp. Stultior relaxed the garrote, and she fell to the floor in a heap.

"That actually went pretty well," said Mutum.

"Yeah. I mean, as these things go, that was an easy one."

"She's gonna have a funeral, right?"

"Yeah," Stultior said.

"We should pose her, before she goes stiff. Before the, umm, rigor mortis sets in."

Stultior looked at Mutum, and grinned widely. "You're a genius."

"Someone has to be the brains of our outfit," Mutum said, looking down at the corpse. "How 'bout we pose her spread eagle? You know, we make her sticking her arms and legs out. That way she won't fit in a casket."

I like this last part, well done. And spread eagle will never have the same meaning again after this tale

Agreed on all accounts, those two are funny as fek.

Please don't say this thread has died?

We demand moar! Moar I tell thee

Thouest must second thy wisdom.

Hear thy loyal servants plea for thy attention great one! Leave us not in darkness O lord

Sorry, I'm taking a break from this to work on "May His Legacy Never Fade". I'm a very slow writer, and I can barely manage on project, let alone two at the same time.

Your comments are very much appreciated though. I will bring this back later. Its just on hiatus.