The Last Pantheon: of hammers and storms by Jason Jones & Andres Castro

Author:Jason Jones & Andres Castro [Jones, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-03-07T18:30:00+00:00

Intermezzo

South of Gillian

Shanador

My eyes close, head on my desk, in the study above ground. Nothing stirs, Alesandeir is asleep in his room, late into the night. The dreams have been calling as I decide to simply rest my eyes for a moment. It quickly turns to a vivid recollection, a nightmare of my past, like so many other nights. Though my purgatory is over, it is never forgotten. The memories are so real, perhaps it is this time, by chance, they have found me.

No, it the sleep that recalls, nothing more, Sodom.

…The flames are black and red as far as my eyes can see, the smoke that rises is death incarnate, and the black pits in the crimson stone swirl with screams from souls that endure torment like no other can imagine. It is Infiernum, the lowest pit of Hell, and in the valley of the throne of the fistborn son. Shukuru roars with a might that shakes all the seven Hells above his seat of power and damnation.

His throne, it is made of blackened feathers, the skeleton of a long dead serpent, golden skulls, and rises high into the black sky with inverted mountains. The mountains drip blood like rain, for tens of thousands hang in eternal damnation, from chains of green steel that burn them constantly in the horrid afterlife. They are squirming, shaking, hooks and blades of green at the ends of their chains, through them, hanging as trophies by uncountable thousands from these mountains. Shukuru spreads his bat like wings from his towering twenty feet in height, and at his whim, souls perish to nothingness.

I remember now when this was. Not the day or the year, for those things do not exist there. But, I recall this moment, and I will as long as I live. I am hiding, like so many others, as the Lord of Hell is never pleasant when angry. Yet, in my cavern in the mountain ceiling, I have learned to use my infernal magicks to a degree. My blood has dripped into a small fissure, from wounds of self inflicted nature, and I can see in the reflection of my crimson stain until it dries. I have been watching the world, from afar, hoping one day to see it again in the flesh. I am careful, only being caught and flogged on a few occasions, yet I have seen Agara once more, and it is worth the potential pain. Demons fly past by the thousands, still I stare into the view of the mortal world.

How many years exactly have I been here, I do not know. Nine centuries and then some I think. I am cursed, damned to service. I have run messages, traveled the infernal realms on foot, an errand boy for two thousand years as decreed by God, Yjaros, for my transgressions. Ten centuries in Mictalan, the dead lands, in service to Mowg for my forbidden love of someone that is no more and for hiding her away from Him.

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