Wayne Densley - A Warrior Of Perdition.txt

A Warrior of Perdition 
A fantasy ifiction novel written by Wayne Densley 
Copyright 2003 All Rights Reserved 
email : densleyw@shoal.net.au 

In the half light of a ragged dawn the Demon waited, his form indistinct as he stood patiently upon the crest of a barren, rock-strewn hill. From somewhere within the veils of a blood-red gloom, the first tendrils of light were cast by a pallid sun that climbed torturously from the horizon, its glow shrouded in mist and haze. In the gleam of its smothered fires, the world below remained dark and dissolute, but there was something rousing within the shadows and Absalom was waiting for it. Carefully he gazed into the gloom and focused his thoughts on the plains below. This, he thought to himself, was the best time of the day. The violence and the pain would be fresh and vigorous. It was something he appreciated, something he depended upon.
 In the dark his novices slept, but the rising of the bloated red sun would bring them back to life, and the process of selection would start once again. Today, he hoped, he would find at least one worthy of ascension. With this in mind he placed his hands upon his armoured waist and waited for the carnage to come. It would not take long. 
Silently the sun rose out of the mists and the long shadows began to withdraw. The plain below was clear of movement, its surface a forest of broken, twisted metal and shattered bones that spread across its vast expanse. As the light of day hit the bare ground a low murmur began to rise, a cry of pain and anguish that quickly grew into an audible clamour of despair and outrage. Absalom smiled, the troops sounded restless; grudges and despite had festered in the long night and that could only mean a good harvest for the day. 
As he watched, his Lost Souls began to arise from the dusty earth. They were just Souls, without form or substance, but as they clambered from their resting places the earth itself clung to their essence, infusing them with the form needed to grasp at weapons and begin the violence of the day. Every stroke would be felt as if they still had corporeal form, every cut as keen as a freshly opened wound, but it was their fate that they would fall back into the earth as dust again when the sun finally set. They were Souls on a path to Damnation. Only a few would avoid the fall. 
Absalom was both Gatekeeper and an Arbiter of Souls in this place, a Demon of great power, and a selector of those souls fit enough to escape Damnation and become acolytes to one of the Demonic Orders. Without compassion or care he was built to intimidate, a brutish creature of night-blue skin and black armoured scale.  Since the dawn of consciousness his existence had been one of violence and pain, and his body mirrored the rigours of such a role. Deep were the scars of his torment and powerful the muscles that flexed beneath his dulled body armour. Great leathered wings rested at his back, and from his skull protruded two huge horns of bleached bone, that glimmered red in the malevolent light of the sun. Cloven feet and hands edged with razor-sharp talons made him a formidable adversary, someone to be avoided at all cost. 
Here upon the Fields of Arbitration he would watch his charges as they lashed out at each other in their fear and their pain, and from them pick those that were strongest of spirit. The rest would be sent to Damnation, but that was the province of the Volkari Order.  It was no business of his. 
In the pallid light he watched as the Souls arose. The air was full of their cries and it sounded to Absalom as harmonious as a Church choir.  The pain and suffering of these beings gladdened him, for he knew that in their torment they would tear each other apart, and that was exactly what he required. Today some would fall into Damnation, but a very few would be given the choice of joining the Demonic Orders. The rest would return to the dry earth and await the coming of another day. 
As the wide plains below awoke to the light, the Gatekeeper watched as earthen forms climbed slowly from the ground, searching the plain for any weapon they could feel out with unseeing eyes. As each found a discarded shard of metal, they were given sight and the violence began. At first isolated pockets of fighting broke out within the stumbling mass of forms. Then, as more of the Souls found weapons and their sight returned, the violence escalated into a grinding, mangling battle that tore away at the forms, rising in power as a tide might upon the shores of another Plane. 
Absalom watched and revelled in the energy of their desperation.  With the force of a wind whipped up by the heating earth it buffeted and tore at him, and within its gale he could feel his Souls writhing in their torment. Until Judgement Day none of these wretches would see the light of compassion again, and whilst they remained here they were his playthings. He was not going to make it easy for any of them. 
Tens of thousands of Souls struggled desperately upon the plain and within this chaos Absalom spied something that struck him as promising. One soul had taken a position upon a slight rise in the ground between two contorted pieces of metal. As the fighting broke around it the form lashed out at the surrounding combatants, picking off those nearest and using the safety of the position to remain uninjured. Here lay a possibility, one that he would need to investigate. From his belt he pulled a long hafted axe. In the glow of a red sky it glimmered with fire, and with it raised at his shoulder he strode down into the midst of the melee and made his way towards the solitary Soul. Other Souls barred his way and he threw them aside as he advanced. Some even tried to put up resistance and were sent to Damnation with precise strokes of his axe. The plain was wide and it took some time to reach the Soul, but as he forced his way through the bodies and dust he could see that here was indeed a real possibility. 
This Soul had mastered the fear and the pain, and had found the strength of will to resist intelligently. It had proven itself worthy of ascension and now it would need to feel the pain of death once more to achieve its passage to an immortal life. Absalom had the power to bring this Soul back to life, a brief existence where it might be offered the choice of Damnation or Demonhood. A choice for Damnation would send the Soul back into the dust to await the new day. A choice for Demonhood would bring swift action from Absalom in the form of a lethal stroke of his axe. Death at his hands would open the Gates and allow entry of the Soul to the Halls of the Demonic Plane. There it would be consumed and reborn as a Demon. 
From the armlet at his wrist the Gatekeeper shot an orb of pulsating green light at the Soul. It tried to dodge the blast but could not evade its power. With an audible thud the glowing sphere hit the Soul and enveloped it, holding it tight. As the sphere shrank about the struggling being it infused the Soul with its own essence and took on the shape of its previous form. In a contortion of energy and earth the Soul slumped to the ground, now a physical presence, both living and breathing. 
To Absalom's surprise it was a young woman.  She had a look in her eye of defiance that seemed out of place with her slim form, and she hurriedly grabbed up a weapon as the Gatekeeper approached. He smiled and shook his horned head. What could this offspring of the Mortal Realm possibly do to resist him.  Then he looked closer at her face. There was no fear, no hesitation. Something was not right. Then she spoke. 
"I know who you are, Gatekeeper. Keep your distance for I have no wish to join your dissolute ranks." 
Absalom took a breath and stopped. In all the ages of his interment within the Demonic Plane he had never heard a Soul speak until it had been asked for a choice. And this one was not finished. 
"I have a message for you, one that you should heed well. Tell your Lords and Masters that the Nef knows who they are, and he knows where they reside.  He is coming for them, and with their fall he will tear the fabric of the Omniverse to shreds!" 
Before Absalom could react the girl threw herself upon a shard of razor-sharp metal protruding from the ground and fell to dust. She was now beyond his reach, her act of suicide ensuring a quick passage to Damnation. The Volkari would now have to deal with her. 
Such words from a mortal Soul confused him. All the ages of Time he had spent upon the Fields of Arbitration and never had he heard such a threat. Yes, he knew of the Nef but that Demon had been confined to the Pits many ages ago. He would need to consult the Sextants of his Order before this day was done. Such mysteries needed to be explained. 
His musing was broken abruptly by the approach of his Adjutant, a Bokari Demon named Feshak. He was a nasty little creature that Absalom knew had ambitions far beyond his station. 
"Sire, the Clave of Lords sits in dire session and has bid you attend the Halls of Despair. There has been an incident and they need your council." 
Absalom turned to his aide and sneered. 
"My council? Why would the Lords need my help, I am but a Gatekeeper, a lowly Arbiter of Souls?" 
Feshak did not have an answer. "I know not what they might need Sire. All I know is that you are required. Shall I return to them and inform them that you will not come?" 
Absalom turned to face his Adjutant, any humour that he might have entertained from the morning's carnage had evaporated quickly in the heat of the day. He had been lumbered with this Bokari some centuries earlier, and found the experience had hardened the loathing he had harboured for him and his Order. It was not just that the Bokari were small of stature and thin of limb, making them worthl...