Dancing In The Void

Baphomet’s shadow eyes scanned across the barren dunes from the top of the petrified desert cliff.

A dust-beaten cloak was covering his head and back, his eyes, pale smudges of white across his wrinkled, cadaverous face. The pains of mortality had taken a toll on this feeble form of his, but it was a necessary evil he had to accept. Beneath his cloak, striated armor made of a metal as dark as the night. His horse, a massive black stallion enclosed in spiked silvery armor, stepped relentlessly on the spot. He was restless, bloodlust welling up within him as he flared his nostrils, anxious to gallop forward into the jaws of violence and ruin. But the stallion dared not disobey his master. Baphomet allowed a decrepit smile to crawl on his face as he gave his beast a calming pat on his head with his metallic gauntlet.

“Peace… peace Ironshade. There will be time for trampling your enemies underhoof. Now, we wait and gather our strength.” His thick, throaty voice called out as noises perked up behind his left. An underling, clad in a similar silver uniform, riding up the hill. He paused before his Lord, taking a deep bow. Before he spoke, he observed the view down the mountain hill.

“A great host, my Lord Baphomet.” He began talking with a shrill voice that sent the sand rats running. “Many more will come before the hour of reckoning is upon us.”

“Have you come to gloat and spout empty words at me, or have you carried a purpose with you here, Adramelech?”

“My Lord…” The man began. “There’s a growing sense of... impatience among the ranks. Some generals are suggesting we risk being spotted, scouted. They suggest riding at first light and taking the city by surprise while we still can.”

Baphomet smiled and turned from the precipice. “No. Surprise or not, we will never breach the walls without losing half our army.” He replied with a deathly chill in his voice.

“Then how do you plan to take the capital?” The subordinate scratched his nose, adjusting his helmet afterwards.

“By losing half the army.” He grinned. “Now go. Tell these miserable generals that their pitiful attempts at quelling casualties have no place in my army. A massacre awaits, and many will die. But they will die for a great purpose. An evil, an abomination will be dragged back to her rightful place at the throne of hell. Tell them to cling to their fear, and let it be their strength, as by the end of this, they will feast in my halls of hell.” Baphomet’s booming voice rang out, and as if enthralled by it, his horse stood on its hind legs and let out a ferocious neigh. The sight of their lord seemed to inspire the army, as ten thousand men and horses roared across the plane below.

“Yes… My Lord.” Adramelech said with another bow as he turned and galloped down the hill, knowing when he had been dismissed.

Baphomet watched him leave with pallid eyes, until silence fell upon the desert, and silence greeted him.

“A meager display of power, Wolf-Tamer.” Her voice trembled like soft whispers of phantasmal panache. The woman stepped, or more accurately, carried herself forward on root-like branches. Rocks and sand scurried around her as her feet broke through the earth like foundations of a great oak. An impenetrable cloak wrapped her frail-looking body, white fibers like spiderwebs obscuring her from sight.

“I was not expecting your presence, Grand Virtuoso. Most unexpected is your arrival.” Baphomet said, clearly displeased by whoever this mysterious stranger was. “Why are you here? Have you come to paint another masterpiece of the war that is to come?”

The woman was wordless. She held her hands before her, the tips of her forlorn, ancient fingers pressed gently against the others. “We are displeased. Your decision to act is rash, and risks having unwelcome consequences upon us.”

“I care not what the other Knights dare preach. The path I have set upon is unchanging, and the fact that you are here tells me the others did not care enough to come instead, is that true?”

Dust and sand began to pick up, the wind intensifying around Baphomet. His horse trotted back a step, fear engulfing it. It took Baphomet’s forceful kicks to the ribs to calm it down. “I am not their messenger, do not treat me as such. Whatever your differences are with us, you are still one of us, that is why I have come.” The woman said, a cloud of death and decay flowing from her cracked purple lips as she spoke.

“You are foolish enough to think I will turn away from this path?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Cain has already foretold your demise, I am merely here to dispose of your corpse.” Her voice fell without care or meaning. “Why… why go through with this Baphomet?” Her question then surged, a tremble, an inkling, a small seed of care hidden within. A burning desire for knowledge.

Baphomet was silent. He turned away, looking over the cliff once more. “I called her here. I made the grave error of summoning her into this world, ripping her from her rightful place in the heavens. She is an abomination that must be cleansed. I alone must rectify my mistake. Balance and order must prevail at all costs.”

“But you… you yourself have stepped outside the lines of your so-called order, waging war upon the kingdom of men, where is the justice and fairness in that?” She asked.

“Sacrifices. Sometimes, for the sake of true equilibrium, the scales of balance itself must be tipped.” Baphomet answered, his deep voice echoing with defiance.

“And of your demons? Your monsters? The countless souls you’ve doomed?”

“Sacrifices.”

The woman scoffed, allowing herself a dark chuckle. “You hide your selfishness behind meager notions, and you think that is enough. You may have deceived yourself, but I know your true fear, Wolf-Tamer.”

“Of course, my dear Queen, I would expect nothing less from you. Now begone, there rests a city I must besiege.” Baphomet said, galloping down the cliffside as his horse let out another fierce neigh.

The woman stood for a few moments in place, watching him go. “Always stubborn…” She sighed. “But I must admit… This is quite a wonderful view. I think I will linger… just a little more.” With a finger lift, a line of sand surged from below, forming a rectangle of glass to her left. With another long, cracked, black finger she crafted a throne out of the sand behind her, upon which she rested. She placed her palms on top of each other, finger-tips against her bony veins, and as she pulled them apart a paintbrush materialized. Gorgeous black, lacquered wood and bristles that glistened in the desert sunlight. “Let us paint this tragedy, shall we?” She smiled and flicked her wrist. A spray of black ink swelled from her brush, following her delicate movements upon the glass.

Mephistopheles walked down the abandoned road of the ancient neighborhood he once called home. The street, an old thread on the outskirts of the tapestry that was Ur-Iktamun, once remembered as so busy and bustling with life, now filled only with sorrowful emptiness. Gone were the hordes of children running across the streets, trampling over each other as they played games and laughed. Gone was Yellow Yaksha, called thusly over the color of her stand, and the flowers she would sell there. Gone were the old couples that would rest on the steps of houses, throwing seeds for frail birds and offering tales of times long passed. All gone, replaced by nothingness. The threat of war scared them all off, and only the feeling of impending doom remained. Melancholic nostalgia washed over him as he walked through and found the abandoned rooms of his old house. He laughed. It seemed so pitifully small now. How he and his adoptive mother had managed to live in such a place for so long, he did not know. Even after becoming a mercenary, he’d rarely find himself living in more acceptable places, with actual wool sheets and wooden beds. The last few months, ever since he and Camael fell in love, was the only time in his life he could remember living in such a place for long. Camael had arranged for him to live near the palace in a small unremarkable inn where she had given him permanent residence. No longer did he have to sleep wherever he could find a soft stone or log. But visiting his old home was always a rare pleasure and Mephisto desperately needed a quiet place to help him think.

How I missed this place… and you… Mother. He thought with a sigh. I wonder if I still have that old drawing of her… He wondered as he began searching the premises. It was almost morning by now, another night without sleep, just aimless wandering through places he felt he needed to see. Five months had passed since war was declared. He could not see Camael anymore, she had locked herself inside the palace while her child, their child grew. He had managed to sneak in a few times with the help of Cassandra, but the guards were growing in numbers by the hour. The risk grew too high, and the great General Samson shot him daggers out of his good eye every time he ran into him on the streets of the city. The decision was clear, he would wait until the time was right before attempting to reach her again. How he missed her soft perfect skin, her crimson lips, her flowing night-sky hair, and most of all how he yearned to see her blue eyes once more. The angelic eyes in which he could see love in all its truest purity. As his search continued, he landed upon his old basket, still holding some of the clothes he had from his youth.

What’s this then…? He thought as the moonlight glinted through the opening in his walls and rested upon a shine in the basket. A roll of papyrus, wrapped in a shining seal.

“A letter?” He said out loud. He then quickly ripped the seal off and began reading.

“My dear child, I sent you many letters while you were gone fighting your wars, but it seems they never reached you. I understood, but as I was left here alone, fear gripped me. Fear that I’d never get to see you again. Fear… that I never got to tell you the truth. Now, as I lay on my deathbed, I hope to impart on you my final sin. I lied about what you were to protect you from the truth. Your truth and… your father’s. I knew him well, Mephisto. And I learned what he truly was in time. I hope the gods forgive me for what I’ve done… no. I hope you forgive me most of all. The day I found out, I tried to kill you with my bare hands, but I couldn’t bear to bring myself to do it. Even though I knew what you were, you were my son. Your father was a demon, an ancient being born of hell, born of evil. And so… are you. That is the truth. The demon that was your father left you on my doorstep, and I will never know why. But I no longer cared. You may be born a demon son, but your birth will not define you. You are beyond evil. You are a kind and gentle soul, pure, filled with love. Perhaps that was the demon’s wish, to see you grow beyond what you were born to be. In so, I hope I was an able mother to you. My son, I feel my eyelids falling, and the spectre of Death lingers in this old hut we called home. I hope you return one day, and find this letter. The sun shines upon you, no matter what.”

Mephisto was silent. The letter fell between his fingers as he finished reading. Waves of indescribable feelings and thoughts washed over him. A hurricane of choking doubts. Disbelief, fear, questions, so many questions. But he had little time to process any, as a companion joined him and woke him from his trance.

“I knew, find you here.” A whispered voice called to him. “Mephisto.”

“What?” He turned back, adjusting his eyes to the light. The shape of the creature in front of him was unmistakable. He just had to count the legs. “Cassandra? What are you doing here?” He asked as he stood from his seat, placing the forlorn letter on the basket for the final time. He walked out of the house and up to his friend, wiping the tears from his face and trying to clean himself up.

“Come, Must. Now.” Cassandra yelled. For the first time since he met her, Mephistopheles saw true worry in her eyes. It was a grandiose sight, yet a troubling one at the same time. The questions that swarmed and billowed in his mind were overpowered by an even greater and more pressing one: what had happened to worry even the great manticore that was Cassandra?

Mephisto did not ponder the question long. Instead, he quickly got on her carapace at her behest and clinged to her waist. Cassandra did not even react, she just dashed forward through the streets faster than the quickest horse Mephisto had the good fortune of riding. The palace was far, but with Cassandra’s swift legs they reached the front gates within the hour. She halted suddenly, nearly bucking Mephisto off of her. General Samson was waiting for them on the second step of the stairs. Clad in his black and gold armor. The entirety of the queen’s guard was rallied before him, all draped in shining bronze armor atop their mighty warhorses. Their spears were held straight and true to the sky, as the banner of the lion fluttered in the wind. Samson walked forward, gently nuzzling his white as snow steed that was awaiting him at the head of the column.

“General.” Cassandra said first.

“Greetings, General Samson.” Mephistopheles followed humbly.

“I must admit I am filled with jealousy. Out the great steeds we all have, yours is certainly the most beautiful.” Samson mocked.

“Krrhhh!” Cassandra hissed loudly with menace in her eyes.

“Forgive me, Lady Cassandra, I merely jest.” He smiled and continued. “I am curious however, the person riding you… have we met before? Come man, stand before me.”

Mephisto looked at Cassandra, who gave no response. He sighed, and got off of her. The hulking woman immediately skittered up the stairs, the queen’s guard all parting to make way as she passed. She paused when she reached the General, and leaned in threateningly. “The Queen… request him.” Her threat was all to clear.

“Yes, yes. I just wish to discuss a bit with him.” General Samson said, unperturbed.

Cassandra screeched and left. Mephisto sheepishly followed the footsteps she left, small numerous stabs in the sand and dirt, until he stood before the general. From this distance, the sun shone even brighter as it reached higher in the sky, allowing a more appropriate view. The general was wearing his famous black armor, darker than any of the soldiers around him and lined with edges of gold. The same snake that he had across his face was emblazoned upon his chest in flaming red colors. But most of all, Mephisto saw the great weapon he held. In his right hand was his magnificent halberd, a family heirloom created by his ancestor, Basfol the Red Smith, ages ago.

“A mighty weapon General.” Mephisto began, recalling the tales of the weapon. Legend had it, the King at the time searched for the best smith in the country in order to make a weapon for his prince’s upcoming birthday. When he found Basfol, he was refused, as the smith felt he was unworthy of crafting such a great gift. As punishment the King tore down his home and slew the donkey who helped pull the furnace, the smith’s only companion. Weeks later, a humble Basfol came to court with a golden halberd that would cut through steel like through silk. When questioned about the blade, Basfol confessed, saying he made it from the jawbone of his dead animal. The King and court were struck in awe, begged for forgiveness and offered him a home in his palace. Truth or not, when Samson became a soldier and inherited his family’s pride and joy from his father, he decided to name it after the weapon of myth. The myth only grew alongside the legend of the General himself, and many-a-foe met their end at the edge of…

“The Donkey’s Jawbone… a mighty weapon indeed. Stained by many legends and the blood of many enemies.” Samson began. “I once asked the fine Lady Cassandra if any of the old myths held any truth…”

“The old myths? About the donkey and the smith?” Mephisto asked. “What’d she say?”

“Just a typical blunt ‘No remember’ and she never spoke of it again.” Samson chuckled, and Mephisto followed him.

“Your name is Mephistopheles, the mercenary, right? I’ve seen you around the city often, but have we ever met before?” The General questioned, his one eye staring through him.

“We have, actually. The Battle of the Three Rivers.”

“Ah, what a savage battle that was. I remember hearing of a great fighter among the deeper ranks that almost caused our defeat single handedly. Most fortunate we did not cross weapons, Mephisto, else we might not be here to converse so casually.”

“Actually General, if I remember the Three Rivers well, it is I that should consider myself fortunate we did not meet. Our company did lose after all, remember? You crushed us. Had I faced…” Mephisto said respectfully, turning to Samson’s weapon. “Facing this blade in battle would have most certainly been my death.”

Samson nodded pensively. “The Queen is heavy with child, on the verge of giving birth. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you?” He asked, changing the subject.

“Not a clue in the world.” He shrugged, the right part of his lip curving upwards.

“Thought as much.” Samson chuckled, walking a few steps towards him. “The Queen randomly sends her most trusted bodyguard to bring a sellsword from the outskirts of town with utmost urgency, surely there is no relevance to be found there. You’re the father.”

“You knew? I’d assumed you’d do some gruesome things once you found out.” Mephisto asked curiously.

“What kind of savage do you take me for? Fool. I’ve known for a decent amount of time.” Samson laughed loudly, his voice sending a tremble through the air. “The Queen’s choice who to love is her own. Even though I consider you a scum, unfit for her.”

“W-well I’m sure…”

“Quiet, I’m sure you consider me a stuck-up old rat who should have croaked long ago.” He said, his smile and good mood melting in an instant. “But our enemy is upon us, Mephisto. I care not what you were before, or what we might think of each other. Within a few hours war will come knocking. Can I trust you then, to keep our queen safe if the walls are not to hold it back?”

“You would put your trust in a mercenary?”

“I’ve grown mellow over the years. The Queen needs you by her side, more than she needs soldiers, priests and terrified healers.”

“Won’t Cassy make sure no harm comes to Camael?”

“Two is better than one, even if she is a beast few would get past.” Samson said with a wise smile. Cassandra hissed again from the top of the stairs, somehow her hearing able to pick up his words. “If Cassandra is needed to hold back the foes, you must protect the queen in her stead. Can I trust you? Answer me in truth, and know that should you harm her, I will chase you across heaven and hell, for all eternity. You will answer.”

Mephisto took a deep breath. A whirlwind of emotion whipped through his mind, but through them, a light. Defiant love surged forth like a bolt of lightning. “I love her Samson. I love her more than I've ever loved anything in my pitiful, worthless life. If this is to be our end, know that I will die a thousand times before I harm Camael or our child.”

General Samson stared unblinking at Mephisto, every word he had spoken being judged and weighed by his sharp mind. With a sigh of relief, he was found worthy. “You speak truth, Sellsword.”

“I better go now. Don’t let them in Samson, whatever death may come.” Mephisto said, giving the General a friendly pat on his shoulder before he ran up the stairs.

“Whatever death may come.” Samson repeated under his beard. He looked up at the sky, the sun now hidden behind dark clouds. He smiled timidly at a brown hawk that was gliding through the air. It soared high above the world, untouched by worry, by fear, nor by death. The General took this omen and grunted, clenching his fists in an attempt to let go of his sorrow and despair. He climbed upon his horse, and kicked it hard in the ribs. He galloped forward towards the city wall, while the horns of calamity resounded in the distance.

The horde that lay before the General stretched on for miles over the desert dunes into the horizon line. The golden plains outside of the city were now covered by a black swarm, a writhing twisting mass of cancerous flesh upon the sands. The once beautiful outskirts, the peaceful farms and flower fields that had taken decades to align, now trampled underfoot by men and demons. Snarling foul creatures of the abyss hauled gigantic machines of wood and stone as their greater masters whipped and barked orders. Death followed every footstep they took, and the land itself turned black and dark as if the very joy and life it held was sapped from it. Samson’s eyes found more spears, swords, fangs and claws than he ever dared imagine in his wildest assumptions. This was not a conquering force, come here to siege the city and rule over it. No, this was a dreadful army bred and conjured for a singular purpose: eradication. Samson even saw the legions of Ur-Iktamun’s former allies, but they held no banners, they walked with no zeal or desire. The men were all changed, lifeless, more like corpses that walked rather than conscious soldiers. It was sickening. Many of the lieutenants and brigades down below were ones he had fought alongside on many occasions. The men that made them were proud, loyal, honorable soldiers to both their rulers and the Queen of the land. Now, they were nothing more than raw meat to be thrown against a grinder. The General shook his head in disgust. It was too late for anything now. The lines were drawn and the pieces were set. This battle rested on his shoulder, and there was no room to falter, not here, not now. Once the entire city was surrounded, a hundred thunderous drums boomed alongside hundreds of deafening horns.

“General. We await your command.” His lieutenant said grimly. Samson looked to his left and to his right, counting the many archers he had placed all along the city walls. His forces were great, stretching all the way to the looming mountain behind them, but still, before such a calamitous foe, he feared it was not enough.

“Steady.” Samson raised his fist. The rhythm of the drums escalated.

“Steady.” His voice echoed around them, his heartbeat quickening. The beat of the drums was rapidly rising as well.

“STEADY!” A trickle of sweat dripped down his neck. The drums stopped, and the horns roared, as thousands came charging towards the gates and walls of the fortress city.

“RAIN FIRE ON THEM!” He screamed, slicing the air in front of him with his fist.

The roar of the hooves and feet of the men below was drowned out by the sounds of endless blazing arrows being unleashed by rangers atop the walls. They were the shield of the city, and upon them entire legions perished. Entire rows of demon soldiers fell limp onto the sand, painting it crimson with their lives. Those behind them trampled on with reckless abandon, only to meet the same gruesome fate, riddled with dozens of arrows each. But this enemy would not just stand idly as hundreds melted before reaching the walls. Many crossbows were set, and another myriad of arrows came flying through the sky, this one unleashed from below. Samson and his soldiers hid behind the parapet walls, the screams and shrieks of those unfortunately hit echoing through the air as they perished. During the rebound, Samson leapt back up, shouting at his men.

“READY YOUR ARROWS, ANOTHER VOLLEY, FIRE!” He cried out, his voice radiating out like thunder.

His men were brave, and their aims were true, but the tide of this battle was unwavering. The enemy crashed onto his walls like water, but just like the oceans and seas, another wave always arrived. Every dozen they slew came at the cost of one of his courageous soldiers, and he needed his soldiers more than the enemy did. Worse yet, the pillars were approaching. Towers made of rock and wood, covered in sheets of black metal. Their arrows bounced uselessly off of their armor, but Samson realized better. Hulking lupine beasts pulled the siege towers, abominations of fire and blood crawled straight from hell itself. Despite their thick hide and oversized armor, a well placed arrow could find its mark on their flesh.

“AIM FOR THE WOLVES, MEN! DON’T LET THEM COME ANY CLOSER!”

“HURRAH!” The choir of archers all cried back in unison at their general. Their arrows rained down, and where once were columns and rows of delicate beauty stood. Now there sprouted only flowers of iron and wood, their petals painted red with blood.

Samson turned back, stepping away from the walls. In the city streets below his spearmen were awaiting at the gates, ready for the foe. Behind them, garrisons of swordsmen, hands tightly clutching their weapons as they awaited the orders of their captains. General Samson picked up a flag, black with a red smear, and fluttered it towards them.

The arrows won’t hold them back for long! We need men on the walls, lest we get slaughtered when these towers break through. Samson heaved. His signal was seen immediately, and his men rushed up on the parapet walls.

“General Samson!” A young soldier pushed past the legions on the stairs. He was panting, out of breath, and on his shoulder rested a trained desert hawk. “News from the western gates!”

Samson’s eyes lit up. He rushed down to the man, and pulled him aside in a small alcove on the inner walls. “What news?”

“The enemy’s forces aren’t hitting as strongly on the sides. The eastern city is under heavy assault, but the western forces are thinning. They’re holding them off… for now.” The soldier said with a quick breath. Samson carefully considered this new information, and a strategy formed in his mind.

“This foe has struck our city hard at the main gates… We’re getting overrun here. Son, can your hawk send a message back to Captain Menkara in the west?”

“Yes, General.”

“Order from the General: the soldiers are to charge out and attack the demons head on. Tell them to push through the enemy, and to wreak as much chaos as they can before retreating. We need them to draw troops away from the main gates. If they get overrun, call reinforcements. Do not let the enemy through!” Samson stepped close to the soldier as he turned to leave and grabbed his shoulder. “Then ride for Lady Cassandra, tell her she must protect the eastern gates.”

“Lady Cassandra, my lord? The Queen’s Manticore?” The soldier asked as he finished etching the order on a piece of parchment with black charcoal. He then placed it in his hawk’s leg pouch and sent it off with a sharp blow of air.

“She’s waiting at the palace. If any outer gates fall, the whole city might be doomed. She will know as much.”

“Yes, my lord. I pity those that would have to face her in battle.” The subordinate replied with a bow, before running to find a horse.

General Samson watched him leave, before the sounds of war and the screams of death shook him awake. The troops were now positioned on the walls, just in time as the towers were approaching swiftly. A few were stalled by his loyal men slaying the hellhounds below, but now there was nothing stopping them from reaching the walls. A smile itched on the General’s face as he rushed up the steps, his lion cape fluttering in the golden sunlight.

“It appears hell itself has come for our city men! Yet, our great sun is just climbing high above, still smiling upon us and blinding our foes.” He called out as he readied his golden halberd, hoisting it high into the air. The men cheered and cried out in reinvigorating glory at the sight of the mighty weapon. The symbol of the city, the bite of war, the General’s jewel. Their thunderous battle-cries echoed out over the walls as the towers crashed against them, coming to a still stop. “Let us cast these creatures back into the pit before night and death claims us all! TO ME!” The General cried out, charging headfirst into his enemy. The demon soldiers never awaited a warm welcome, but neither did they expect such an immediate and expedient death. As the armies crashed, the General rallied his forces, and cut down his foes with swift blade and merciless fury. His blade danced across the walls, the screams of his dying enemies and the spattering of their blood were the musical symphony playing for his glory.