Hellborne

PROLOGUE The mechanical whine of planes, in the distant darkness as they taxied about Birmingham airport, mixed with the smell of jet fuel leant an eerie and somehow metallic aspect to the skeleton of what had once been a stronghold for humanity: The ARC hangar and base of operations in the Southern United States. They did not know it, but mankind relied on this shadowy organization. Not only to protect them from his kind, but also to keep the secrets buried, the masses ignorant of what existed beneath their feet, beyond the limits of their tiny minds. If they could comprehend the horrors spawning from their mere existence, they would wish they had never been born. Asmodeus considered this as he stewed in frustration over the events of recent months. The plan had been ambitious, and never subtle, not by his standards. He had hoped it would end with the portal, meaning he could get back home and save what remained of his caste. No doubt, the others would have decimated his numbers in his absence. Abaddon, Mammon, Lucifer, Leviathan. All had the advantage while he worked to save them, but he had no illusions that the first thing they would do when they arrived would be to end him. He took a moment to observe the figure at his side. One of his most bitter rivals, Belphegor had become his only ally in a world cut off from all they knew. When Satan had descended from Heaven, their alliance had endured beyond ages. Now it threatened to leave him alone, isolated. In response to his gaze, Belphegor shivered, clutching with her one good arm at the other, almost completely frozen. She received the wound ignorantly making contact with one of the Nameless, the force Satan had kept in check over the millennia. Now, the wound threatened to destroy her if they could not return to their own realm in time. Even in the dark, her long blonde hair shimmered. To the mortals of this realm she was a beauty, a facet perpetuated by Asmodeus to instil l**t in the easily influenced. To demonkind, she was a force to be feared: remorseless, calculating, and utterly without mercy. Asmodeus hoped she would become so again. “Can we get on with this?” Belphegor’s hiss came through teeth clenched in a grimace to prevent chattering. “Hold out your arm,” Asmodeus instructed. Unclasping her frozen limb, Belphegor reached out with her good right arm. Carefully, Asmodeus folded the sleeve of her blouse back. Smiling, he avoided the steely-eyed gaze that reminded him above all, Belphegor admired fashion. Even in her dilapidated state, woe unto the being, mortal or otherwise, who ruined her favorite garment. Since the collapse of the portals, inclement weather had ravaged the entire state of Alabama. From within the trench coat he had favored since then he produced a knife. About a foot in length, from tip to hilt, the blade glittered as it caught the light in the near-darkness. The knife was legendary. Belphegor stepped away. “The Well of Souls,” she said in part reverence, part horror. Asmodeus laughed. “You need not fear for your existence my dear. The blade is corrupt. Iuvart saw to that in his l**t for advancement, for which, I suspect, we have you to thank. There is nothing left on this mortal plane for us to fear. Not now the blade is stained with her blood.” Asmodeus turned the dagger, regarding it. There were dark stains amidst the conchoidal perfection of the blade. Dried blood. Her blood. “The only act the blade is good for on this side of the void is the very act they sought to prevent.” Trembling, Belphegor stretched her arm out. “You have a faith I am rapidly losing.” Saying no more, Asmodeus ran the razor-sharp edge of the blade along the inside of her forearm. Raising the knife, he regarded it for a moment before running it across his right palm. “The blood of the most unholy, mixed with that of the sacrifice on the blade of the Well calls forth at will, not by chance,” he intoned. “Return to us, born anew.” Asmodeus touched the dagger to the tarmac of the runway, a place still bearing the scars of a violent explosion. There was a brief flash, and a body materialized in mid-air, dropping to the ground with a thud. Asmodeus felt a rush of power through his body, filling him with ecstasy. By the look on her face, the same had happened to Belphegor. “Like it?” The answering look of l**t on her face had nothing to do with his demonic force. “I feel stronger.” “And so you shall. For each of Hell’s minions returning, with your life used on the blade, you shall grow stronger. As I said before, there is nothing here for our kind to fear.” Belphegor gazed down to the body lying inert at their feet. “I want another.” “All in good time. There are many places we can raise you an army. We have a long road before us, though the destination is known. This is the first of a new breed. He has been called at will, by our blood and by that of the sacrifice. They may come as before now the way is open, but those we choose are ours without question.” Asmodeus drew his right foot back and kicked the body square in the ribs, causing the man to emit a groan. “You. Up.” Drawing deep breaths, the man stood. He was taller than both of them by a good six inches, with a barrel chest wrapped in a plaid shirt. Denim clung to legs under the swelling of his growing gut. He clenched his fists and glared at Asmodeus, his shoulders heaving. Teeth gnashed and his face began to distend, the proportions inhuman in nature. “Enough,” Asmodeus decided, and waved his hand. “You will only revert to your true form if and when I decide it, and not a moment sooner.” At the command, the man subsided, his face returning to normal. “Where am I?” “You are at the place of your death, the site of your ascension, and rebirth. You have been brought back to serve us, and you shall do so with every fiber of your being.” The man clenched his fists. “I feel strong. I feel really strong. It worked as Lord Iuvart predicted.” He raised his hands, punching the air, and roaring into the darkness. Then he paused and looked around. “The explosion. The plane. How long?” “Five, maybe six months. What else do you feel?” He closed his eyes, and pointed east. “There. I feel something tugging at me. What is it?” “It works,” Belphegor breathed in wonder. Asmodeus could not suppress a satisfied smile. “It's a homing beacon of sorts. You are feeling the blood kindred to those the dagger’s blade resurrected.” He stared at first Belphegor and then at Asmodeus. “I can feel you as well.” “There is more: you will feel when we call you, guide you. The first of a new breed you are; an army of demons meant to open the true gates of Hell.” “What do I do now?” “You follow your instinct,” Belphegor purred. “That other pulling, the insistent calling, it will lead you to your former wife and her lover. You should know she is with child. His child. We want you to hunt them down. Them, and all those with them.” Brian Ross rubbed his hands together, his eyes betraying the element of insanity dwelling deep within any demon constrained in mortal form. “Perfect.”