The Theocracy - The Blackened Cross - 20. Chapter 20

All the self-righteous fury and macho false bravado Bazzelthorpe had displayed in front of Kahlah whooshed out of him in a single gust of cold air. He heard the high-pitched mewling sound of fear again, but this time it was not Martice or Lexis making the sound - it was him. And he couldn’t make himself stop.

During his first years on the surface, he recalled seeing a showing of the old black-and-white Frankenstein movie. While moviegoers laughed and howled and threw popcorn at the silly, overexaggerated expressions the creature made on screen, Bazzel had sat forward in his seat (he’d had to rip off the arms of one of the chairs to be able to sit down and even then the seats had made him uncomfortable) his eyes glued to the flickering screen. It was an experience that had been both fascinating and terrifying. Afterwards he hadn’t left his apartment for a week, huddled up against the door like a small child.

Upon seeing the razides he was reminded of the film. He now understood why the moviegoers had laughed at the sight of the creature; a man stomping around in makeup, making silly faces at the damsel in distress. In seeing them he was reminded of what Giel’s fate would have been had Bazzel not taken what he could of his remains and fled for the surface.

Like all things in Inferno, its creations were made from something that had already existed, reshaped and twisted into something else. The death angels were nothing if not resourceful, putting humans and their practice of recycling to shame. Made from the limbs and anatomy of recycled Astorathians, their bodies were threaded through with bolts and gears of steel and machinery. As tall as the typical Astorathian, they of course towered over any human. Razor fingers grinned at them with silver smiles, promising a pain beyond imagining. Empty eye sockets stared through them without recognition or mercy. In each of their faces Bazzel’s lover looked back.

The more he looked - he didn’t have the will to look away though he very much wanted to - the more he saw. Though he had seen them many times in his youth, there were many unnoticed details he picked up due to his time on the surface. It was as if they had taken the trash and detritus from the reality above their heads and composited into themselves: razorblades, used condoms, soiled diapers, torn up love letters, and shit, all of it power the gears that moved the joints, so massively tall they made the ground shake beneath their feet. That the faces of his kin had been printed on their heads only sickened him more. Worst yet was the large, pulsing larvae at the center of its chest; this parasite acted as the creature’s biological engine. Seeing it traumatized him anew.

Four of them entered the pins, claws extended. He backed away until he felt the razorwire dig into his bare back, the spines digging deep enough to make him bleed white. He didn’t see what happened to his other kin and he didn’t care.

After they collared and shackled him with barbed trains that tore at his flesh when they pulled at him and made him bleed, everything took on a red hue after that. He didn’t fight them, but he didn’t crawl after them either. It was as if someone had shot him with a tranquilizer gun.

What does it matter? What do I have to live for?

He closed his eyes and let the terror take him.

…

Vanus moved along at a shuffle. He’d wandered cautiously into a square room, the first change he’d encountered after what felt like an hour or so of walking through ancient stone corridors with an eerie red light threaded through it like lace.

He should have felt relieved. There for a moment he’d been sure that this was the purgatory the death angels had constructed for him: to wander the same damned hallway for all eternity. Unfortunately that would have been preferable to the monstrosities that had just entered the room from the tunnel opposite Vanus. Organisms made of biomechanical material and limbs from other organisms. The Frankensteins of the Void. Each one drug four large gray masses with them. Astorathians. They’d been stripped naked, and shackled in spiked chains.

For their size, the biomechanical beasts dwarfed them in sheer bulk and intimidation factor. To try and fight four of them head on would only get him killed…and it wouldn’t take much.

He was running on fumes. Black dots pricked his vision like Othello pieces.

He raised his staff and then paused, searching the Astorathians. “Please, please, please,” he muttered. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings.

It didn’t take him long to find who he was looking for. When he spotted the largest one in the pack, shuffling at the rear of the line with his shoulders slumped and his head lowered in defeat, bleeding in several places but alive, the death magician felt his relief quickly turn to anger. It was the wounds, the blood, seeing his partner brought to his knees. His anger gave him strength, driving the fatigue from him. Warning pangs of fresh pain dug claws of steel into his brain, but he overrode it. His eyes blazed with gray light, his outline shimmering with a gray frame that made the air ripple.

“Get away from them!” he heard himself roar.

He gave the creatures long enough to take notice of them and then he unleashed a wave of fury that sent them staggering back in all directions.

He didn’t wait for them to cover, to see if his attack did damage. He pivoted around in a fluid motion, letting the staff guide his hand; it had a way of sensing his intent. It couldn’t quite see the future but it was a close thing. The tangle of chains came apart in a smoking heap.

Already one of the razides had recovered from his surprise attack and was coming towards him. To meet its advance would have been foolish; he'd seen the claws and the thing was so damned monstrous it shook the entire room. And there were four of them.

Vanus had enough time to think, You really didn't think this through, did you, death magician? before he had to dance away from the steel flash of claws. The razide coming after him moved relentlessly, its blows falling down on him like hammers. In his distress, in his fear, mana surged through his body; it crackled and burned like lightning, giving him a strength and speed greater than the average human. The result made him feel giddy. It padded the fear, overrode it, conquered it. It was a feeling all magicians were familiar with whether they be chaos magicians or dream magicians or time magicians or lust magicians. Or death magicians like Vanus. They were familiar with it - and they both revered it and feared it.

If one isn't careful, power can rise to the head and distort reality…All power comes with a price…These words of caution echoed through his mind, through the red pulsing haze that filled it. Sure, he'd gotten his second wind, but he would pay for it later; if the razides didn't kill him first, then he would drive himself to the point of death.

I'm not dying here…

With this thought he bared his teeth. He used every bit of strength he had stored left in his cells to drive the surrounding razides with a series of devastating blows that sent cracks rippling through the ground at his feet.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw movement. One of the Astoraths, a female judging from her smaller stature, was helping two Astoraths to his feet. Bazzelthorpe hadn't moved. He was still breathing, just not moving.

"We need to go!" he shouted in Astorathian. “C' need l' bug!” We need to go.

The female let out a surprised hiss, her tail lashing about. He realized that his appearance probably shocked her. Things from the surface did not often wander willingly into Inferno; they were dragged. Seeing him was most likely akin to seeing a new undiscovered species of insect. There was no time to explain. His arms were growing heavy as lead now and the throb was back in his head. Soon he would begin to experience true paralysis: first he would lose the ability to speak, and then the ability to move his fingers, his hands, his legs. Worst case scenario: he pushed himself into a coma he might or might not wake up from. The magician version of a lobotomy.

It would still be preferable to dying in this horrid place. Still, this has to stop…

With a spin of his staff and a push of will that sent a shockwave of mana up his arms, he sent an arc of blue light at the ceiling. Ancient rock broke away, raining down on the razides as they charged towards the death magician. The three Astorathians had the sense to grab Bazzelthorpe’s prone form and pull him out of the room with Vanus scurrying at the rear of the group. He did not stop until they were back in the hallway with the weird pulsing light, and then he had no choice but to stop because his legs no longer worked, so he simply slid down the wall onto his rump.

For a moment he was sure the Astorathians would leave him; they were two thirds of the way down the hallway and not once had they turned back to look over their shoulder. What concern did they have for him, a human from the surface? A fool who had wandered naively into a realm that for all intents and purposes to save a man who openly mocked him to his face.

He didn't feel hurt by their abandonment and refused to take it personally. He felt only relief. No good deed goes unpunished.

For a moment time ceased to exist…or maybe his mind stalled, or he fell asleep, or some damned thing. Movement alerted him. When he opened his eyes he immediately became aware of Agent Bazzelthorpe's proximity. It was impossible not to when you had two and three quarters meters of pure, solid muscle standing before you. It didn't help that his head was pretty much level with the Astorathian's crotch.

Why not allow myself a peek? He'd heard of fetishists who worshiped the Astorathian physique. Human-Astorathian couplings were rare but not unheard of. And now he could see why.

Bazzel's body, albeit a few differences in proportion and shape, was very human looking. His pecs, the muscled slopes and ridges of his abdominal muscles all bulked up and put on a display like a bodybuilder teasing his audience. You can look but you can't touch.

Vanus wanted to touch. He wanted to do much more than touch, he wanted to taste. He wanted to be held in those massive arms, coveted. He could see himself reaching out a hand to touch the sheath that hid Bazzelthorpe's cock, reaching beneath the shroud of skin to touch the steaming head…

Good Mother help me, we work together. Here I am about to die and I'm objectifying my partner in the worst way possible, the death magician thought. He was paralyzed, most likely dying, and horny as hell. It had been a year since he’d seen a naked man other than on his laptop screen late at night, so maybe he should give himself a break.

Bazzelthorpe hunkered down beside the death magician; that at least got the turtle neck in a bishop out of his face. The Astorathian wore a pitying expression on his face. “You’re a mess, Kaufman,” he said.

Tell me about it, Vanus thought. That’s what I get for saving you. No good deed goes unpunished.

Before he fully understood what was happening, Bazzelthorpe gently took Van’s arms and wrapped them around his neck. Strong arms warm as the summer sun lifted him off the cold, hard ground, enfolding him. When Vanus looked into the Astorathian’s eyes they burned with such tenderness, such affection, that it made Vanus feel naked and uncomfortable and pampered all at the same time.

None of it mattered in the end, he was just along for the ride. By the time the four Astorathians reached the stairs with Bazzelthorpe carrying him around like a helpless babe, Vanus Kaufman was out like a light.