25
The clouds rumbled and wept noxious rain over the battlefield. Marc descended in his chariot. Lucifer’s forces had gained access to several gateways over the last few hours, all leading to the narrow chasms near the Temple of the Damned. The attack had been swift, but not unexpected. Right after the meeting with Gabriel and the other archangels, Marc had received word that the enemy was on the move. He had managed to consolidate his forces from all across the infernal plains in a matter of hours. Once again he had the numbers, but this time, Lucifer had something else.
Dark shapes circled over the demonic hordes, their massive wings stretching across the sky. The fallen angel’s mere presence was enough to cause terror in Marc’s legions. He’d been forced to call most of his allies into the battle to keep the morale up. Baphomet led the combined forces on the ground, while Lilith spearheaded a swarm of harpies and flying serpents in the air.
“Lucifer is going straight for the gate,” Asmodeus said, sitting on his winged dais. All of his heads awake at the same time for once.
Marc nodded. “The Gates of Hell have been locked since the Fall, and even if Lucifer somehow has a way of opening them now, Abaddon and Belphegor are guarding the exit. Her forces will be funneled into a dead end.”
Only a handful of Hell’s representatives had access to Earth, and only for limited amounts of time. It was said that if the smoldering gates were ever to open, every demon and fallen angel would spew out over the world.
“Let them into the chasms,” Marc said, his eyes gleaming.
The closest demonic general instantly took off to execute the orders. With such steep cliffs, there would be no survivors.
Marc pulled his thick dragon-hide gloves over his hands. “Visage.”
Born in the swirling white River of Souls, the ghost steed was the fastest in all of Hell. Flowing like a waterfall of milk, its tail and mane whipped fiercely in the high altitude winds. The hoofs crackled with lightning as they hammered against the texture of reality.
“You’re in command,” Marc said to Asmodeus, throwing himself up on the back of the horse. “Let’s see if the legends are true about your tactical brilliance on the battlefield.”
"Come!" He said in a voice of thunder, and he shot into the sky, going straight for the closest angel. Even from this far away, Marc could see the long tail of fire snaking through the air behind it. He uttered an ancient word under his breath, and a golden harp appeared in his hands.
He let his fingertips sweep over the strings, producing a soft hum. An arrow of perfect darkness manifested between his fingers and latched onto one of the strings. He pulled it back and released.
With one searing note, the arrow whistled through the air. It caught the fallen angel in the chest, burrowing into the meaty skin. With a howl, the angel lost its balance, spinning out of control, its burning tail whisking behind it. Marc pulled back another arrow, firing it at the whirling mess of feathers and fire.
It struck true, black blood spraying into the air. With a shriek, the fallen spread out its wings, making itself a bigger target, but slowing the descent. Eyes like glittering dewberries locked on Marc. The angel’s face was covered with red fur, and sharp twirling horns, like thorn bushes, sprawled from its head.
“Furfur!” Marc bellowed. “Long time no see!”
He released a third arrow, which hit the angel in his right the wing. Furfur reared, and let out another bloodcurdling scream.
“I will grind your bones into a fine powder and spice your flesh with it;” Furfur growled. “Then I will eat–”
“Another arrow,” Marc said, striking the other wing.
The fallen angel lost control of its flight once more and started spinning, this time much faster. With a cry of anger and pain, Furfur crashed headlong into the demonic horde below. A plume of sulfur dust blossoming into the sky.
Bellowing with bloodlust, Baphomet stomped over to the crash site and started hacking his giant ax into the dust cloud. Marc grinned and turned his face toward the next fallen angel in the distance. He'd have to be careful not to attract the attention of too many angels at once. As long as he remained on Visage, he'd have the means to escape.
He was just about to ride again when he noticed a corrupted cherub hovering by his shoulder.
“Master… something happened while you were away…”
“Well, out with it then!”
“Houska Castle was attacked...” The cherub covered its face with its chubby hands.
“What?” The grin melted off his face. “Where is Amanda?”
“I better not say, Master.”
Marc gritted his teeth. “TELL ME!”
The little creature flinched and almost dropped out of the air. “Only a handful of lowly demons escaped into the desert, Master.”
A shadow, darker than the deepest crevasse below, fell across Marcellixis’s face. Eyes crackling with hatred, he scanned the battlefield for any signs of Lucifer, but the coward was known for never showing up to battles. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the sky. Sorrow-fueled rage coursed through his veins, shining out of his skin like a river delta of molten rock. The air around him shuddered as the roots of his smoky hair caught fire.
He’d inherited the bottomless wrath from his father, but it wasn’t until this very moment, when the entire world turned viscous and red, and his insides burst out of his pores, that he’d fully felt like the Archdemon of Wrath. Baphomet, who had been wreaking havoc across the battlefield, suddenly looked like a kitten in comparison to the King of Hell.
With a roar that caused the infernal plains to tremble, Marcellixis hurled himself at the closest one of the fallen angel. Blazing through the air like a comet. A tail of burning oxygen lit up the sky behind him and both of the armies below.
His fangs grew into scimitars and his nails into black claymores. Firestorms sprouted out of his back like wings. All the other fallen angels turned in their flights. Dozens of them rushed at him at once. But he no longer cared about their names or numbers. All saw were feathers and skin being torn apart and ripped to shreds. This was his domain, and they’d picked the wrong day to oppose him.