Inferno 7012

The infinite sands of the Infernal Desert spread from horizon to horizon, undulating so slightly that only a trained eye could sense their formations. Above, six suns burned with deathly radiance, filling a yellowed sky with heat that could slough flesh from bone.

Below, a thin trail snaked its way across the sands. Heavy dire camels, their tufts of heavy fur immune to the heat, dragged carts filled with casks of precious water. Runes of cold glowed on each cask, keeping the heat from sublimating the water instantly. The camel-drivers trudged alongside their charges – curious, squat figures, swathed in robes that made their true forms uncertain, prodding their camels with sticks, marching tirelessly across the interminable plain.

A litter rode in the centre of the caravan, conspicuously distinct from the plain carts surrounding it. Rich red curtains wafted about its length, drawn upon the back of four dire camels, and more runes of cold shielded it from the deadly suns.

Within sat three figures. One, a knight in black armour, charred and battered with battle, his plumed helm resting in his lap, with an obsidian greatsword at its sat. Beside him, a girl of startling beauty, naked except for a silver collar and a girdle of white gems. Across from them, a man in robes inscribed with arcane sigils, his thick grey beard protruding from under a pointed hood.

"How big did you say this desert was?" said the knight, looking out of the litter at the unending sands.

"Infinite, Sir Alharazed," said the bearded man, extending his arms. "But, in certain places, water lies beneath the earth, and there the Under-Cities lie. Those who dare to trade the rare spices of the Deepwell are amply rewarded."

"Good to know," said Sir Alharazed. "How many times have you made this journey, Sirial?"

The wizardly figure called Sirial stroked his beard. "I stopped counting at one hundred," he admitted. "Perhaps ten times that number, by now."

"You must be pretty old."

"Yes, I imagine. I stopped counting years at a hundred also... and that was so long ago that I hardly remember it."

"It's very kind of you to guide us," said Sir Alharazed.

Sirial bowed his head. "The quest of Sir Alharazed is well known. To aid in that quest, in my own modest way, is the greatest honour I could wish for."

For many hours they rode in this way, crossing the endless sands, until a cry rose up from the hunched camel-drivers outside.

"What's that?" said Sir Alharazed.

Sirial frowned.

"Bad news, I'm afraid," he said. "Dustwalkers."

"Dustwalkers?"

"Yes, indeed. It is said that they feed on the sand itself, and steal the bones of those who tread on it, leaving them to dessicate under the blazing suns, until the bones absorb the endless fire that dwells within, and become dustwalkers themselves."

"Grisly."

"Very," said Sirial. "Only nine times have I encountered dustwalkers on my desert crossings, and each time my caravan was obliterated, leaving me to crawl to safety. Were it not for my arcane arts, I would be dead nine times over."

Sir Alharazed put on his helmet. "Do your thing on me," he said. "If you don't mind."

Sirial smiled. He leaned forward and, muttering some incantation, painted a rune on the knight's helm. It glowed bright blue – the colour of frost, antithesis of the burning desert.

Sir Alharazed stepped down from the litter. Across the desert came six skeletal figures, clad in clouds of dust, their empty sockets burning with fire.

Sirial looked at the naked girl. "Forgive me my impertinence," he said, "but how is it that you came to travel with Sir Alharazed?"

The girl smiled.

"We're old friends," she said.

In the sands outside, the camel-drivers cowered as the obsidian greatsword flashed in the air. The dustwalkers were shattering one by one, their bones returning to dust as the majestic blade flashed with ancient light.

*

The Under-City of Kravasse looked, from above, like a tiny pinnacle of rock in the eternity of the desert. Beneath the rock, a pit opened, and worn stairs led to a sandstone cave. In the cave stood a rickety wooden elevator, large enough to admit a cart and its driver.

They left the litter above and descended in the sprawling cave beneath. Sir Alharazed sighed with relief as the cool air of the underground washed over him, and looked down at the torchlit city clinging to the cavern walls.

"Cool stuff," he said.

"Tonight we rest at my favourite inn, the Blue-Eyed Dancer," said Sirial. "Tomorrow, I will show you the passageway you seek."

"Good."

At the Inn of the Blue-Eyed Dancer, Sirial took a room in the back with a girl and a full bottle of blackwine. Sir Alharazed and his consort took a room with a window and looked out at the clinging city.

"I think we're nearly there, Sofia," he said.

Sofia smiled and lay on the bed, spreading her legs invitingly.

"It's been a long time, Greg," she said. "I've almost forgotten what we're doing."

Greg touched the handle of his blade.

"I haven't," he said.

*

The first time he'd fucked Sofia had been in the canyon of the Lion Men, clinging to a cliff-face two miles above the verdant wood below, just after his battle with the Six-Eyed Dancer who had pursued them from the domain of the cloud-kings. It had been a strange moment, entering her for the first time, suddenly feeling like that kid who'd stumbled into her apartment with a bottle of vodka hoping that Satanism would lead to sex.

In the lush palaces of the undead sultans they'd made love in the zombie-harems of Lord Ashtar, and he'd led her on a golden chain through groves of green fruit. In the forlorn ruins of the Karhammer he'd slain the monstrous oozes that rose from the cracked earth, and they'd fucked in the warmth of the radiant pools. They'd spend two weeks in the fuckdungeons of the Red Prince Morlog, while Sofia suffered upon the Wheel of Penetration, and when he'd finally freed her they fucked wildly on the Table of Screams, but their screams had not been screams of pain.

In the sandstone towns of the Infernal Desert, she'd passed as his slave-wife, crawling naked at his feet as he pursued rumours of the Umbral Gate that lay hidden in Kravasse. That was where they'd met Sirial, the vagrant cryomancer, whose chill runes protected the caravans that crossed the burning sands. He'd told them he knew the location of the gate they sought. They'd offered him gold, stolen from the vaults of the greedy Snarling Duke, but Sirial had refused, claiming that to aid in the eternal quest of Sir Alharazed was reward enough.

Greg dwelt on these thoughts as he lay awake, watching the movement of Sofia's breasts as she slept. Consumed by the spirit of Sir Alharazed, he'd long since abandoned his need for sleep. Now he only rested his mind in the night hours. Right now he was worrying about the glimmer he'd sensed in Sirial's eyes: the all-too familiar glimmer of betrayal. Sir Alharazed had been betrayed countless times as he wandered the dominions of eternity in search of his stolen bride. He knew the signs.

When the door to the room collapsed in a blast of flame, the obsidian greatsword was already in his hand, flashing towards the interloper. A nine-foot tall goat-man stormed through the door, black horns blazing with eternal fire, and spat a gout of flame that Greg ducked under. A scythe flashed in the goat-man's hand for a brief instant before the greatsword severed both of its arms. The goat-man fell to the floor of the burning inn, and the point of the blade touched his throat.

"You demons have pursued me for centuries," growled the voice of Sir Alharazed, "and still you think you can defeat me? Who sent you?"

The goat-man squealed in the incomprehensible language of the Abyss. The blade removed its head, spraying acidic blood across the floor.

Sofia sat up and yawned. "The inn is on fire," she said.

"Let's go," said Greg.

They stormed down the steps, shoving past the throng of panicked guests, and Greg siezed the slinking Sirial by the neck and thrust him up against a wall. Sirial's eyes darted in a panic between the spreading flames and Sir Alharazed's jet-black eyes.

"Who did you send for?" Greg demanded.

"Nobody!" Sirial babbled. "I would never betray you, Sir Alharazed!"

Greg whipped a serrated dagger from his belt and pressed it to Sirial's throat. "My heart is full of forgiveness," he said. "Simply prove yourself worthy."

"The Pukelord Droggoth!" Sirial sobbed. "The price on your head was too great to resist!"

"I've heard of this Pukelord," said Greg. "I think I've let him rest long enough."

A yellow light blazed in the knight's eyes, and Greg's flesh suddenly rippled with green scales. He spat a foul ichor that sizzled on Sirial's flesh. The traitorous wizard screamed.

"Poison of the Blighted God," said Greg. "Your gold will be well spent on a cure. And hurry – or the poison will devour you from the inside."

He dropped the sobbing wizard and strode from the burning room. "Come on, Sofia," he said. "I think it's time we visited this umbral gate."

*

Unerringly Sir Alharazed's instincts led them to the very base of Kravasse, where its most sordid and sinful dens lay, and into a passageway carved into the rock. Runes of warning guarded its entrance, but Greg waved his red-gloved hands and the runes dissipated to allow them passage.

They trudged through the darkness for some time, winding through the dark stone, the only light emanating from a lantern Sofia had brought with her. At last they emerged into an open chamber, and in the centre of it stood a great obsidian gate to nowhere, with a rippling shadow at its heart.

"I guess this is it," said Greg.

"Now what?" said Sofia.

Greg strode to the gate. Hanging beside it, almost too small to be seen, was a silver bell. He rang it. The tone rang out through the cavern, clear and sharp.

The spectral form of a headless woman rose from the ground.

"Guide," came the voice of Sir Alharazed. "I compel thee by thy eldritch master, the Spirit of the Labyrinth, Bel-Ushtar, whose sigil I bear, to grant me my wish of thy Labyrinth."

He raised one hand and pulled free the glove. On his palm shone the brand of a twisted serpent. The maze-maiden's form glowed with fierce radiance. She fell to her knees.

A whispering voice rang through the cavern: "I know not how thou came to obtain the favour of Bel-Ushtar, wanderer, but I am unfit to refuse thy boon. Enter the Labyrinth, and I will guide thee in its unknown ways."

Greg grinned.

"I was hoping that would work," he said.

He stepped into the Umbral Gate, Sofia behind him, and was absorbed by the darkness beyond.

Standing once again in the twisting passageways of the legendary maze, Greg recalled the first time he'd set foot within that mystical place, and his battle with the Walker of the Dark. The memory was so distant that he could hardly form it in his mind.

"Maze-maiden," said Greg, "I know it is your purpose to guide travelers through the Labyrinth, but, by the Sigil of Bel-Ushtar, I demand a greater service. Grant me to power to step between worlds."

The Maze-maiden shimmered for a moment, and then bowed. "Your desire will be granted, by the power of Bel-Ushtar," came the whispering voice.

For hours Greg and Sofia pursued the Maze-maiden through the labyrinth, creating the byzantine shape of the great Sigil of Power that would grant Greg dominion over the rifts that separated the Eighty-Nine worlds. At last they reached a dead end, and the Maze-maiden halted, her form slowly fading.

"Thy wish is granted, Sir Alharazed," came the whispering voice. "Move as thou wishes. This power of the Labyrinth is yours, and thy service to Bel-Ushtar repaid. Ask no further boons."

Greg smiled. "Let's go on a trip," he said.

*

In the throne room of Pukelord Droggoth, the great Pukelord himself reclined on his throne of filth, supping a skull-goblin of dark blood and enjoying the tongue of a naked girl upon his bloated cock. The door of the throne room opened. Slackjaw, his appalling servant, slouched into the room.

"My lord," croaked Slackjaw. Droggoth groaned a response in his infernal tongue, too consumed by carnal pleasure to notice the serrated knife protruding from his servant's throat.

"My lord," Slackjaw croaked again, and then his head departed from his body. The Pukelord's bulk shifted, and the monstrosity roared in surprise and rage as he beheld the glittering black armour of Sir Alharazed.

Whatever the Pukelord roared then has been lost to history. His bloated form was carved into thirty pieces, glistening with fat and bile, as the obsidian greatsword flashed and cleaved. The slave-girl shrieked and crawled beneath the throne, cringing in terror.

"Good," said Greg. "Now downward."

*

In the depths of the darkest dungeon of the Pukelord's pits lay Natalia, suspended in the air by four chains, perpetually ravaged by six fleshy tentacles that hung from the roof. So she had suffered for, perhaps, years.

Every few days (or weeks?) the gross form of the torturer would enter, grunting as he adjusted the positions of the chains to further stress her body, applying fresh oils to attract the rapacious tentacles to her naked form. She squealed with helpless terror as the tentacles wormed down her throat and into the other apertures of her body, massaging her insides until she felt certain that she would explode.

When the torment suddenly ended, she could hardly comprehend what had happened, until she saw the black helmet of Sir Alharazed staring down at her.

"Hello, Natalia," said Greg. "Let's try this again."

*

In the utmost depths of the Pit of Black Flame, Ragak burned and was reformed each day, his flesh at once gruesomely charred and then milk-white as a babe's. The visages of the flaming demons that administered his torments became, in time, his sole comfort in this darkest of hells, for he could still dream of carving them to pieces.

When they carved themselves to pieces before his eyes, he was hardly aware of what he was seeing. Then a black-armoured knight was helping him to his feet, and he beheld Natalia standing nearby, her flesh as clean and bare as the day they'd met.

"Who are you?" he gasped.

"Greg," said the knight. "Among other things. We have some debts to repay."

*

In an ichor-stained room in the darkness of the Court of Filth, Lord Pazgul reclined on a chair of bones, his cock thrust deep into Yraine's throat. She wore a black iron collar and a girdle of translucent silk, with spiked black heels on her feet and iron clamps affixed to her breasts.

Before him stood Heroslayer Nero, eyes ablaze with fire.

"At last I've received word of Sir Alharazed," growled Nero. "He rises from the Deeps, seeking vengeance, imbued with a power I've not seen before."

"Can you still kill him?" demanded Pazgul.

Nero set his fist upon the pommel of his flaming sword. "I have slain countless heroes," he said. "Even Sir Alharazed will never be beyond my capacity to slay. But it will be a far bloodier battle than the last."

"What say you, Lady Yraine?" said Pazgul thoughtfully.

"Mmmppph," said Yraine. He withdrew his cock from her throat.

"My lord," she gasped, "I know how Sir Alharazed can be defeated. He draws his power from a mystic connection to the Everlasting Deeps – the one realm from which no soul can return. And yet, somehow, the Un-Thing has drawn a part of him back, to dwell forever in a worthy host."

"So?" said Pazgul.

"So," said Yraine, "we must simply end the linkage of those worlds. An old witch-rite of the Black Lake, forbidden for seven thousand years, will serve this purpose."

Pazgul grinned slowly.

"A witch-rite," he said. "My master will be pleased."

"It won't be easy," said Yraine. "We will need two hundred and eleven virgins, to start."

"Leave that to me," he said.

"And we need mgggmgpph," said Yraine, as he thrust his cock back into her mouth.

"Let us begin," said Pazgul.