Пол Кемп - Resurrection

The klurichir’s powerfully muscled body, covered in coarse grayish skin and hair that looked more like quills, stood four times the height of Jeggred. The membranous red wings that sprouted from its back extended out to twice that and cast the entire ledge in shadow. Its short legs looked as thick and sturdy as stone columns. Four powerful arms, all of them in constant, twitchy motion, erupted from a torso that was little more than a gobbling, cavernous mouth that could have swallowed two ogres whole. An insectoid pincer on each side of the mouth spasmed hungrily. A flood of incompressible prattle and drool leaked from between its rows of grinding teeth.

Pharaun thought the babbling would drive him mad. He vomited down the front of his piwafwi. He couldn’t help it.

The mammoth head that sat atop the demon’s torso looked vaguely orclike, though more bestial. A second, smaller mouth opened in the face, below a pair of black eyes. In one of its hands, the demon held a rune-inscribed axe as long as Jeggred was tall.

The bass voice that emerged from the mouth in the klurichir’s face nearly knocked Pharaun down with its power. The huge mouth in its torso continued to gobble and drool while the other mouth spoke.

“You should not have summoned me, child priestess,” the demon said, the implicit threat in its words all the more terrifying because it was unspoken.

To her credit, Quenthel’s body did not shake, though Pharaun knew that not even Quenthel Baenre could match the klurichir in power.

For a moment, Quenthel seemed at a loss for words.

At last she said, “Ten thousand souls are yours if you but perform a single service for me.”

Both mouths erupted in laughter.

“Ten thousand souls are a pittance to me,” the klurichir answered. Its wings beat in agitation, sending a hail of scree into the air.

“Name your price,” Quenthel said, blinking in the gust.

Pharaun could hardly believe what he had heard. Even Jeggred gasped.

Quenthel had offered one of the Abyss’s most powerful demons whatever it wished.

The demon too seemed stunned. For a moment, its huge mouth ceased its senseless gobbling.

A giant tongue emerged from the mouth and licked its lips.

“Your desperation intrigues me,” it said. “Name your service and I will consider it. For payment, I shall have such other, fleshly payment as I may see fit.”

Quenthel did not quail, and Pharaun could not believe it.

“Done,” she said, and gestured down at the plains. “Assist us in destroying the yugoloth army below.”

The demon grinned, gobbled, and took wing, soaring high into the sky. Quenthel watched it go, smiling, breathing heavily, sweating.

Danifae’s voice sounded behind him, reminding him that she too was summoning aid.

As the former battle-captive finished her casting, her voice rose, imploring Lolth for assistance. When she finished, she turned to face the mountain. At first nothing happened.

Then the mountainside began to seethe.

Millions of spiders, billions, boiled forth from every crack, crag, hole, and opening. The sound of their legs and pincers was like a rainstorm, almost worse than the gobbling of the klurichir.

Danifae shouted something that Pharaun could not make out above the hissing din, and the spiders crawled together, massed, clustered. Churning sickeningly, they piled themselves into a swarm as large as the klurichir. The swarm took the rough shape of a giant spider.

Danifae swept her arm out wide and gestured down toward the yugoloths.

As one, billions of arachnids boiled down the mountainside.

“Now, Master Mizzrym!” Quenthel shouted to Pharaun.

“Lower the wall of force!” Danifae ordered.

Pharaun did exactly that and immediately took wing.

Jeggred tore down the mountainside, roaring with rage. Quenthel and Danifae followed at a run. The klurichir roared, raining drool on the Plains of Soulfire, and descended downward. The arachnid swarm boiled toward the yugoloths.

To their credit, the yugoloths responded quickly. They were a practiced force.

Though they often were loath to do it due to the price, Pharaun knew that extraplanar creatures had the ability to summon others of their kind, usually due to some pre-existing cooperative arrangement. The mezzoloths and nycaloths were no exception. A hum of arcane syllables wafted up from below, and more and more mezzoloths and a handful more nycaloths teleported in with a soft sizzling sound and the stink of vomit. An army of five hundred became an army of eight hundred in a three count.

The nycaloths hurriedly deployed the new troops, trying to prepare for the klurichir’s attack, Jeggred’s charge, and the swarm’s rush.

The ultroloth rose into the sky, his presence there offering a clear challenge to Pharaun. Half a score nycaloths rose with him.

The klurichir roared, the yugoloths clicked and shouted, the swarm hissed and boiled.

The battle was joined.

Jeggred pelted down the narrow path, heedless of the long fall to either side, heedless of the army that awaited him at the bottom. His clawed feet dug furrows in the stone with each stride.

Rage burned in him. He could already taste blood and flesh. He roared for joy.

Below him, two score mezzoloths awaited his charge, glaives at the ready. Several of them gestured, calling upon their innate magical abilities, and clouds of stinking green gas formed before him.

He ran through the killing fog without a pause, inhaling the foul fumes, feeling the sting on his flesh. He ignored the discomfort on his skin and in his lungs and charged on.

Some of the mezzoloths in the second rank summoned balls of fire to their palms and threw them at him as he ran. Most missed and exploded harmlessly on the rocks or in the air, but even those that struck him had no effect on his flesh. He was demonspawn after all. Low intensity fires could not harm him.

He threw back his head and roared again.

Another explosion nearly knocked him from his feet. He dug his fighting arms into the rock to keep his balance and ran on.

A shadow fell on him, but he did not spare a glance up. The giant demon summoned by his aunt soared overhead, toward the rear of the mezzoloths.

Jeggred was twenty strides from the first of the creatures. Fifteen. Ten. He looked into their compound eyes, brought his fighting arms up to rend. Five. He could hear their clicks, the ring of their armor.

He leaped high off the path and landed into their midst. His momentum carried him into two of the mezzoloths’ glaives, and both sank deeply into his skin.

He barely felt the pain, even as his blood began to flow.

He let fury take him over fully. His claws rose and fell, slashed and tore. Sometimes he struck carapace, sometimes he struck nothing. He had arms in his mouth, bodies, heads. Anything that came within his reach was bitten, rent, torn. Yugoloth blood dribbled down his chin.

Glaives slammed into him but he did not care. Balls of flame exploded against his skin and he still did not care. He felt his blood flowing down his back, his chest, his arms. He was swarmed with mezzoloths. He roared and killed, roared and killed.

Impenetrable darkness suddenly sheathed him. Blind, he continued to rake and slash at anything within reach. He didn’t know if the mezzoloths could see within the darkness, and he did not care. He slashed and killed even as he began to grow weaker.

Pharaun watched Jeggred tear down the narrow path and leap into a mass of waiting mezzoloths. The draegloth vanished under an avalanche of black bodies, and Pharaun gave him no further thought.

The klurichir set down toward the rear of the yugoloth army and cut a great swath through their number with its axe. Nycaloths and mezzoloths swarmed it, axes and glaives thumping into its flesh. Its roar rang across the battlefield.