The Dark Lord of Crafting

Each car included a catwalk that ran its entire length set snugly between the imposing wheel hubs below the main body of the cars. It was probably for maintenance, but in this case, it provided a few intruders with an avenue for direct crossing from one car to the next. A minecart transport system, humming with the energy of the sanguinum-powered rails, was attached to the catwalk, allowing Berith, Asmodeus, and myself to traverse the grim metal leviathan in what could almost be described as style.

Our minecart sped along the tracks, and the rhythmic clattering combined with the whoosh of air had a carnival feel, reminding me of the little roller coasters in the state fair from when I was a kid. As we whisked by, I spotted more lillits engrossed in their work beneath the cars. Their dull gazes and emaciated frames mirrored the state of the men and women I'd liberated in the caboose. There was a pit in my stomach, a knot of anger and frustration, each time we passed another group.

My hands itched to jerk the brake handle, to halt our momentum and complete the rescue. That would have been the heroic thing to do, but also futile. If we didn't beat Duke Agares, none of them would ever make it out of Nargul, chains or no chains. With alarm bells ringing outside, we were on a clock.

With each passing moment, our minecart devoured more distance, gaining velocity every time it crossed another powered rail. The cars were numbered, and I watched as the painted signs became a blur, each one zipping by faster than the last. The sensation of speed was intoxicating. It felt like I was seated on Noivern’s back again, gripping the harness as we sped into a dive.

There were soldiers stationed intermittently, their faces registering a comical mix of bewilderment and alarm as we sped by. The sight of a heavily armored man, flanked by two demons racing along in a minecart was not a normal part of their daily duties. Yet, somewhere in that stream of bolts and gears, comprehension had to dawn on someone.

By the time we approached car thirty, the cart jolted with a sudden drop in speed. The hum of the sanguinum-powered rails faded. Ahead, a trio of soldiers yanked down the connection hatch, barring our path. The defenders were finally catching on.

In the face of the rapidly descending gate, I resisted the impulse to ram straight into it. Instead, with a firm grip, I yanked back on the brake lever. The cart's wheels screamed against the rails, friction producing a dazzling spray of orange sparks as we juddered to a stop. As the lingering aroma of burnt metal filled the air, Berith gripped his hefty ax and disembarked, the worn leather of his boots slapping against the catwalk's steel surface.

My attention was diverted by a soldier at the gate. He was murmuring into an odd-looking communication device that, preposterously enough, seemed to be nothing more sophisticated than a tin can tethered to a string. It was hard not to smirk at the juxtaposition of the perfection of the crafted minecart system and what amounted to a child’s toy being used for troop coordination. Without hesitation, I raised Kevin’s repeating crossbow and called an arrow from my inventory. Cocking the crossbow was only a hair slower than using my regular bow would have been, and the arrow lodged itself into the talking soldier’s shoulder. The Knockback effect slammed him into the wall, and the can dropped, swinging on the end of its string.

Asmodeus took the hint. His knives soared through the air, attacking like they had minds of their own, spinning and slashing like a pair of the most terrifying birds imaginable. By the time we reached the gate, the other two soldiers were already incapacitated. Berith’s face twisted with annoyance; he had been cheated out of the action once again.

“How fast can you open this?” I inquired, nodding towards the gate.

Asmodeus, his serpent’s mouth locked into an eternal smile, acknowledged my request with a nod. His twin knives returned to him like hunting hawks, and after taking a moment to sheathe them, he whispered an incantation. The metal gate curled up on itself, rising as though it was nothing more than an old scroll being rolled up, but creaking and snapping like the steel that it was.

Impatient, maybe eager to prove himself, Berith lunged ahead, his battlecry resonating through the confined space. But as we followed him into the maintenance channel beneath the next car, it was apparent that his thirst for combat would remain unquenched a little longer; the area ahead was deserted.

Abandoning the rails lost us a little time and the clatter of the minecart was replaced by the rhythm of our jogging feet. We weren’t exactly slow, but it felt like a snail's pace compared to the previous headlong plunge.

From cars thirty to forty, the path was eerily quiet. Each hatch we encountered was firmly sealed. They had to know it wouldn’t stop us, this was a deliberate delay, and I expected to find them consolidating their forces further in.

As we broke through the heavy door leading into the underbelly of car forty-one, a torrent of crossbow bolts greeted us. The shafts whizzed and their iron tips plinked against my armor, followed by a chorus of clatters as they bounced off and fell to the catwalk. Beside me, a few bolts swerved around Asmodeus, deflected by a magnetic shield that shimmered faintly with its activation. Berith tanked a few hits. The missiles didn’t bounce off of him, but they could barely penetrate his skin. One lodged itself in his chest, and another hung from his arm, that had to be annoying at least.

He was a thoroughly pissed-off cat.

We were met with a formidable redoubt. Soldiers had fortified the catwalk with barricade after barricade, positioning themselves for a last stand. Only a few paces in, entirely blocking the rail, was an armored troll. Its getup was an improvised mishmash; bits of plate armor awkwardly strapped together, interspersed with loosely draped chain mail. The creature’s gnarled paw clutched a fearsome, battle-worn mace. I'd killed plenty of trolls, but this was a first. Some of them were smarter than others, and this one looked less bulky and animalistic than usual.

Berith didn't waste a breath considering his options. No subtle strategies, no attempt at wresting control of the troll's mind. With a deep-throated roar, he surged forward, the glint of his ax tracing a deadly arc toward the monster's thick neck. The troll, despite its cumbersome size and the tight quarters of the undercarriage, managed a last-second sidestep. Instead of its neck, Berith’s blade bit into its shoulder, rending the mismatched chain and sinking cruelly into the creature's gray, leathery flesh.

It hooted in response as it retaliated, swinging its mace with surprising swiftness. The weapon connected with Berith’s unprotected side, and I winced in sympathy at the impact. The mace's flanged edges sank into the tiger demon's flesh, drawing dark blood. Rather than weakening him, the pain only seemed to stoke Berith's fury. He attacked the troll with a fervor that was a little terrifying, hacking at it like he was chopping down a tree, and instantly putting the giant on the defensive.

Tearing my eyes away from the scene, I aimed the crossbow at an encroaching soldier, but he was too quick, taking refuge behind one of the barricades as my bolt whistled by where his head had been. It was easy enough to reload, but none of the soldiers seemed keen to present me with a target. Asmodeus dashed forward, twin wavy Kris knives gleaming in his grasp. He vaulted the first barrier, laying into the soldiers behind like a dervish monk.

These barricades, cobbled together from planks and barrels, seemed haphazard, but there was more to their placement than had been immediately apparent. Once Asmodeus was past the first, it animated, wooden boards stretching and contorting like the tentacles of a kulu. They ensnared Asmodeus just as he dispatched a second stormtrooper, locking around both his legs and capturing one of his arms.

A hiss of vexation escaped Asmodeus as the animated barricade constricted him, his struggles against the unyielding wood proving fruitless. Demonic magic, as far as I had observed, was extremely limited along the themes of a material affinity, and Asmodeus couldn’t do anything with wood. My gaze caught a flicker of movement at the car's far end. There, partially concealed by a stack of crates, was another demon, akin to Asmodeus in species, yet distinct in kind. Unlike my snake demon’s regal hood and golden cobra mystique, this one bore the broad brown-black face of a boa.

I’d never had an excuse to use flaming arrows before. They would have been useless against Kevin, and Shadowbane was the better tool for dealing with monsters, but this was the perfect opportunity to give them a showcase. I had a sizable supply leftover from the Bedlam base, and as long as I had them highlighted in my inventory hot bar, they popped into place as soon as I pulled back the string on my bow.

The crate wall was a broad target, like shooting at the proverbial side of a barn, almost begging to be set aflame. The first arrow thudded into the timber, immediately enveloping the crate in red-orange tendrils. A few more releases and an inferno raged, consuming the entire stack.

Soldiers, blindly persistent, continued to loose volleys at me. But against orichalcum armor, their bolts were as effective as paper planes. Berith yowled his clash with the troll the centerpiece in a chaotic table setting.

The hulking mob, once towering, now knelt, one leg gruesomely severed by Berith's unrelenting assault. A second later, Berith’s ax found its mark on the creature’s skull. With the troll done for, the tiger demon unleashed his inner berserker on the remaining soldiers.

The opposing demon, who I knew by description as Forneus, momentarily emerged from the roaring inferno of the crate wall. His head flicked back and forth, taking in the full scene, before he made a run for an overhead hatch. With a swift gesture, he released a concealed ladder just as my next arrow took flight.

The fiery missile found its mark. Rather than wearing armor, the demon had come to this battle wearing full-on, billowing wizard robes, and he went up like a pile of tinder. But despite being actively on fire, he swiftly climbed through the hatch, abandoning his subordinates.

The subsequent clash was a blur of steel, flame, and shadows. And with me stuck in one area and night outside, shamblers were spawning, adding to the chaos. Some soldiers, seeing the tables turning, dropped their weapons in surrender. Asmodeus, in a burst of power and irritation, tore free from the wooden limbs ensnaring him, his gaze fixed upward. Without a glance or word in my direction, he pursued Forneus, scaling the ladder with supernatural speed.

“Wait!” I shouted after him, Forneus wasn't the primary objective here. But Asmodeus was already gone, vanishing into the hatch.

That left Berith and me to break into the next car, but he was still hot from the fight, and he battered through the iron gate like it was cardboard. This defensive position hadn’t been chosen at random. Duke Agares had made the tower above car forty-two his home. We left behind the wounded and surrendered soldiers along with a set of newly spawned zombies, which Berith had swiftly brought to heel.

The next maintenance channel greeted us with a return to silence, though there were still moans and calls echoing from the previous car. Finding no opposition, we promptly pried open the overhead hatch, ascending into the dim confines of car forty-two. The clatter of the train's wheels was the only sound that reminded us we were still onboard a locomotive, the clangor only somewhat muted by the confined space.

The interior was more like a medieval keep than a train, with ornate stonework and torch-lit walls, and at its heart was a spiraling stone stairway that beckoned us upward, leading deeper into the demon’s chosen abode.

We quickly cleared the adjoining chambers as we ascended. Many rooms stood barren, void of any furniture or ornamentation, a hollow home. But not all were abandoned: a dimly lit study held leather-bound tomes and dusty scrolls, and multiple private rooms suggested the presence of regular inhabitants, although none were currently in residence. The higher we climbed, the more we felt the sway of the train, a reminder of its endless journey, as tireless as it was pointless.

Reaching the pinnacle, a trap door opened upon a broad platform under an arching stone canopy. Rough stone columns stood tall at each corner, supporting the structure while providing a panoramic view of the sky. Phantoms were circling in the night, as well as other, larger, winged shapes too numerous to be wyverns.

We came up near the center, and Duke Agares was waiting for us not more than ten paces away. He was a minotaur clad in stone slabs, rough-hewn armor that left only his head and muscular forearms exposed. A massive granite sledgehammer rested at his side, its broad head touching the platform, its handle leaning against his thigh.

Beside him, looking every bit as commanding, was Astaroth. The second demon had the head of a peacock, covered in bright blue feathers with gilded yellow outlines accentuating his eyes. He had the appearance of a nobleman attending an opulent feast: dressed in a lavish suit with a cloak that mimicked the flamboyant tail feathers of a true peacock.

The pair was not alone. A gargoyle stood sentinel beside each pillar, but these were not the statues in Bael’s tower. Craggy flesh and dim yellow eyes, they stood as tall as trolls. Though their overall build was more slender, the strength in their limbs was obvious, as was the vicious nature of their claws and fangs.

A small crowd of lillits stood around Agares, none of whom looked particularly enthusiastic about being involved. More lillits were forced to stand in a line ringing the tower, their heels up against the verge, each a step away from a deadly fall.

Two faces stood out to me among the rest. Mayor Boffin, Esmelda’s father, and the tailor, Brenys. For as long as I had known them, they had both appeared to be in their fifties or sixties, though I knew Boffin had lived for well over a century before I met him. Lillits were exceptionally long-lived, and they retained a youthful appearance through most of their lives. But now, after a decade of servitude, Boffin looked exactly as old as he was.

They didn’t gaze at me with hope in their eyes, and there was no sign of recognition in their grim expressions. To them, I was a stranger in strange armor, arriving in the company of a demon. I didn’t know what Agares had told them, or if he had told them anything, and this wasn’t the moment to explain.

“I know who you are,” Agares said, his voice as deep and resonant as you would expect from an eight-foot-tall, infernal minotaur. “And I felt it the moment Bael fell. Orobas has long been dissatisfied with his position, and the Dark Lord put more faith in him than he deserved. But you,” his gaze shifted to the serpent at my side, “Asmodeus, how disappointing. I thought you knew better than to rebel against the natural order.”

“Order is not our way,” my companion said, his sibilant voice barely audible above the din of the train.

“What’s your plan here?” I said, watching the dark shapes in the sky, distant, yet familiar. They weren’t wyverns, and some of them were attacking the phantoms, descending on the manta-like spawns in gangs and ripping them apart in midair. There were dozens of them at least, and one circled closer as I watched. My eyes widened.

What were they doing here?

“Are you trying to make a deal with me?” I demanded. “What you did…your message. I can’t forgive that.”

Agares snorted, his nostrils flaring. “The Dark Lord has a weak mind. It made him biddable, but he was also incurious. The mess you made in the Wastes was sufficient to spur him into action, something we appreciated, but he never bothered to learn more. He didn’t care to after you were captured. But I did. New survivors are always a matter of interest. I made a point of interrogating the lord who gave you to us, and your attachment to the lillits was made apparent. From everything I learned of you, it was clear that you wouldn’t make a suitable candidate for the Throne of Shadows.”

“A suitable candidate? You wanted to replace Kevin too?”

Agares drummed his fingers against the handle of his hammer. It probably weighed a hundred pounds, but I did not doubt that he could wield it with ease. “We all considered finding a replacement as the years dragged on. The Dark Lord has many flaws, but at least he is not…sentimental.”

“Are you saying you don’t want a deal? A place in the new seating arrangement?” Not that I was planning on doing him any favors, but letting him think I was open to a bargain would at least give me a chance to get the lillits to safety.

“No, there will be no agreement between us, human, though I should thank you for removing Bael from the first seat for me. I sent the head knowing you would come. I do not fear you, and even now, there are forces en route to retake Mount Doom. It may be mine already.”

Well, that sucked. I looked past the demon and shouted a single word at the top of my lungs.

“HOMIES!”

Duke Agares, second harbinger of the One Who Knocks, heard my cry and appeared genuinely baffled. He looked around. Nothing immediately happened.

“What? What is that word? Is it meant as a curse? You have no power to curse me, human.”

Behind my visor, I couldn’t help but grin. It was nice to see old friends again. The shapes in the sky were harpies, and there were lots and lots of them. Agares may not have understood the cue, but it was on.