Hell's Reaping (Book One of The Apotheosis Trilogy)

By James Bishop

On the brink of annihilation, the last survivors of humanity do the unthinkable.

Five of the greatest Templar in history are sent from their Holy Sanctuaries to battle the Demonic Legion and destroy it from within. These five damned souls are changed against their will into that which they hate the most, demonic warriors themselves with only one goal... to destroy the Devil himself.

Jacob Merethius, Han Fe-tze, Piotyr Lamja, Joshua Danner, and Kasim al-Saif are the greatest weapons the remnants of humanity have on the eve of their destruction. The Patriarch of the Holy Temple sends these men against their will into the bowels of Hell to wage righteous war against the endless hordes of the House of Lucifer. Once powerful Templar, the profane ritual done at their expense changes them and gives them dark and incredible power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Bishop
• Release date: Sep 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301145249

James Bishop

James Bishop, Jr., is a writer, editor, and teach who has worked for Newsweek and for the White House on energy policy. In 1993, Bishop was awarded the William Allen White gold medal for best public affairs article. He lives in Arizona.

Book preview

Hell’s Reaping: Book One of The Apotheosis Trilogy

James Bishop

The Apotheosis Trilogy is a work of fiction, and was written with the intention to entertain. Like any work of fiction, the ideas contained in this novel are not meant to be taken literally, or as a direct representation of the author’s own spiritual beliefs. It is a story. Nothing more, and nothing less.

HELL’S REAPING

Copyright 2012 by James Bishop

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Cover art by Giuseppe Saitta

First edition: September 2012

Published by James Bishop

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Angela

My love,

My life,

My soul,

Always.

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Book of Jacob

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

The Book of Piotyr

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

The Book of Han

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

The Book of Joshua

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

The Book of Kasim

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Apotheosis

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Epilogue

Prologue

Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein: for the time is at hand. - Revelation 1:3

Autumn mornings were among Samuel’s favorite vices. He took great pleasure in them; as invigorating as a smooth glass of fine scotch after an exhausting day. He began that morning like any other, refusing to alter his routine just because it was to be the last. His preferred vantage point for witnessing autumn mornings was a hilltop overlooking the valley where he had lived for the last twenty years. In the dark hours before the sun broke the mountaintops, he would brew himself a pot of rich black coffee and walk the half hour it took to reach his destination. He did so again this one last time. Only this time, he brought with him all that he would need in the long years to come. Seated on a cold rock, Samuel sipped his scalding beverage and waited patiently for the dawn to break. His breath misted in the cold air, and the sky slowly lightened from a deep violet color. Samuel’s dreams of the past night gradually lost their unsettling effect, and the hot liquid and quiet environment calmed him like nothing else.

He had known about the morning’s approaching events for what seemed an eternity. He had prepared as best he could for what was to come, and had made a pact with God to enjoy that particular sunrise as if it was any other. Samuel reached into his pocket to retrieve a lighter, a tarnished thing that bore no marking save a slightly dulled cross, just slightly more silver than the rest of the lighter. He had three cigarettes left in his soft pack, now mashed and bent from hard use. Removing one of them, he lit the end and inhaled deeply. He studied the quiet vista he had called his home for the past two decades. Over the years he had grown to love the valley and the people in it greatly, even if he’d always known his being there had a greater purpose. Samuel had dwelled in many places over the course of his life, but none had impacted him as much as the calm scene before him. Although he knew that everything was coming to an end, and had known ever since he could remember, still he was filled with a profound sadness.

The sky had begun to shift more towards blue than violet. He lit another cigarette and poured more coffee. The chill was beginning to get to him, giving him cause to pace for a short while. He could see lights coming on with more frequency now, as more people were waking and leaving the safety and comfort of their homes and families. People amazed him. It did not matter what tragedies or disasters might befall them, life just would keep on moving. It would after today as well. He truly regretted not being able to warn those he cared about of the impending horrors, though Samuel knew the reason for the ban was absolutely necessary. He just wished he had more time. That was foolish, he supposed. One more autumn morning, or ten, or a thousand, would not have made any difference in the end.

The sky was becoming much brighter now, perhaps another five minutes to daybreak. His coffee had grown tepid. Samuel hated that. With all his experience and knowledge, he was still subject to the same banal process of cooling beverages as anyone else. He quickly finished his drink and tossed the container on the ground. He was not likely to need a coffee thermos any time soon. A hint of orange was beginning to peek over the horizon. A small bubble of anxiety began to creep up in his throat. Samuel shed a few tears as he walked back over to his prior sitting place. He reached down and retrieved the possessions he had brought with him, and stood with his back straight to watch the sunrise.

In the twenty years he had been getting up to watch the dawn on these autumn mornings, this was the first time his weapons came with him. Some of his brethren believed in having an over-abundance of tools for slaughter dangling about their body at all times, which Samuel found abhorrent. Undoubtedly those same people watched the dawn as he now was, but with relish and lust rather than dread and dismay. His own reluctance to embrace violence gave him a more practical approach for weapon selection. His swords were plain looking, functional weapons that suited him. His right hand blade was a hand-and-a-half longsword, weighing slightly over three pounds. The blade measured just under three feet. The blade for his left hand was shorter and lighter, being well under two pounds and just under two feet in length. Both were made with painstaking detail and care, crafted by their wielder himself from the finest steel, and designed and redesigned after a lifetime of testing and use. For the fighting he would soon be engaged in, effective and familiar weapons were required. The horn would sound that day, though not in the way some hoped. The horsemen were coming, but not today.

He removed his shirt and jacket and slipped into the hide jerkin he had kept hidden for what also seemed an eternity. As the hide enveloped his torso like a second skin, Samuel felt the hate and rage begin to overwhelm him. A desire to slaughter everything innocent and good coiled around his mind like a constricting serpent. The armor now covering his torso was insidious in nature, as was the creature he had killed to make it, long centuries ago. He fought to retain his natural mindset. Sweat glistened visibly on his forehead, as he struggled to contain his bloodlust. Panting, incisors elongated, he began to salivate. His hands shook uncontrollably. He inhaled again deeply, and took the time to light his last cigarette. The lighter jerked up and down as he struggled to focus on the simple act of smoking while fighting to keep his sanity.

His deep breathing helped him concentrate on his humanity. The sky was reddening; he did not have much time left. It had to be now. Removing his pants, he put on the leather greaves that he had with great care prepared for this day. His overwhelming desire to kill almost drowned out rational thought. A veil of red descended over his sight, and an overwhelming thirst for violence and death was taking root. Samuel fought with himself. His desire to kill diminished as he struggled to remain human. He breathed deeply, focusing on his center. He calmed, and a feeling of balance and peace slowly settled over him. His teeth retracted, and he ceased panting and drooling. He was himself again. Picking up his two swords, he strapped the longer hand-and-a-half blade to his back and his shorter thrusting weapon to his side. He stepped into his good combat boots, laced them tight, and did a final confirmation of his readiness.

Prepared, Samuel stepped to the edge of the hilltop and finished his last cigarette. As he watched, the sun crested the mountaintops and sunlight bathed the city below. It was a beautiful sight, as it always was. The buildings of the city were awash in an amber glow, and the outlying homes and commercial structures were resplendent in radiant hues of orange and gold. It took his breath away.

That moment was the most precious of his entire life. He would always remember the way his beloved home looked in those last few seconds before the end. One more tear, a wistful memorial to what was about to be lost, fell from Samuel’s cheek. He took a deep breath, drawing his weapons in a single smooth motion. As he exhaled, he watched as the gates opened and flames erupted across the valley. Then the screams began.

The Book of Jacob

Chapter One

Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the World, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, -

John Milton: Paradise Lost Book One

The walls of the Sanctuary were adorned with wonders. Stained glass depictions of the old days shone brilliantly onto the pews below. Nowhere else had Jacob seen so many scenes involving halos, auras, and raw divinity. Pity it would all be desecrated within the year, perhaps even months. Over the span of his days as a Templar, Jacob had seen hundreds of Sanctuaries. That being so, he had to admit the grandeur and magnetism of the holy images before him. He could see how most men, even those such as he, would be impressed by those venerated walls - if the circumstances were different, that is. Jacob had hunted things more foul than had any other Templar, and he did not appreciate the particular saints and martyrs exalted on the walls of Haven. If there were any real truth left in the Temple, there would only be images of Templar adorning the stone. Sacrifice could be a powerful weapon, but the safety of people in places like Haven was due in fact far more to men such as Jacob than the saints on the stone and glass... those such as he, who had personally slaughtered more creatures of darkness than any of the figures immortalized and near deified on the walls of the Sanctuary of Haven. He had bled for the Temple, bled for his people, and bled for Haven, yet it was fat and docile old men who graced most of the murals and frescoes.

So be it. Let Templar die amongst the badlands, and die defending their Sanctuaries when they too fell. The blood of Jacob and his brothers and sisters had bought the survival of Adam’s seed thus far, and when the last Templar gave his life against the Legion, thus would Adam’s seed finally fail. So be it if the fools commissioning holy artwork thought that the truth was less important than portraying other fools getting killed for foolish reasons. So be it. In a year it wouldn’t matter.

His own eyes met the stained glass ones of Saint Darien. A glorious nimbus surrounded the fat ox of a man, and his serene expression belied the fact that he was being ripped apart by fanged horrors, their lifeless glass eyes glinting with madness and death. Supposedly, Darien had been gifted a revelation while presiding at the Sanctuary in South Eden. This revelation showed Darien the ultimate folly of hiding behind safe walls instead of letting his faith shield him, and bid him combat the growing evil in the forests surrounding his Sanctuary. The point, Jacob supposed, was that he bravely stood to face that evil on enemy ground. The result, however, was that he was torn asunder and had absolutely nothing to offer the Temple anymore save a foolish depiction of a supposed act. Even if Saint Darien had ignited his soul then and there, what good did a few slain demonic wretches do? Damned pitiful. Jacob hoped to meet the Patriarch and be on his way.

Some smooth faced boy of an acolyte came to gather him, and with a withering look at the famous Saint Darien, Jacob followed the boy to his appointment. As he walked along the halls of Haven, the quiet disturbed him. This was not what would save them. Docility, placidness, patience; those were the sounds that greeted Jacob’s ears as he walked along the stone. Where were the sounds of grizzled old Templar shouting instruction at eager young recruits? The enemy grew more powerful by the day, pressed further into the lands of man by the day, and lay waste to more Sanctuaries by the week. Here at Haven, the heart of the Brotherhood of the Temple, where the enemy should be able to point to its most implacable foes, there was only the sound of silence. There was only the sound of death.

How many Templar have been called into service this past year, boy? Apparently he had interrupted the thoughts of the child, who shot him a brief look of irritation. None this year, Father. Our last Seeking garnered no new recruits. Nor have any orphans been found amongst the heathens. Jacob had thought as much, the entire place reminded him of a tomb. Soon, the ravenous Legion would come here as well. Haven would fall, and the end of the end would come. The child had begun speaking to him again. He cut him off and asked to be led to the Patriarch in silence.

Jacob laughed quietly when he was brought to a small chapel with very little adornment. Apparently his reputation preceded him. His opinions on Temple ostentation were rather well known. He thought Piotyr would share his amusement. Still, what the chapel lacked in grandeur his Patriarch more than made up for. The older man in front of him appeared much as he expected, though more impressive in person than many of the other Patriarchs he had reported to over his long career. He had met this Patriarch once, but it was years ago when Jacob was still a child and the man was but another Templar. The war was not as desperate then. This man was resplendent, no longer anything like Jacob. His robes of office, a perfect balance of black and white silk laced with gold and silver threads made him appear powerful, imposing. Archaic sigils of protection and faith glowed faintly about his vestments, giving the man an ephemeral quality. The Patriarch of the Temple was truly a sight to behold, and assuredly a sight of inspiration and devotion to his supplicants. In the field, perhaps his power would have mattered, but here? Meaningless. Jacob believed the Patriarch could face down a Ba’al. Pity, that he would never find out while the man hid behind the walls of Haven. Warding off the Destroyer might be an impressive feat in some ways, but it was not enough. While men like the Patriarch cowered behind the walls of their Sanctuaries, the war was lost.

Jacob made a formal bow, not really looking to see if he received a return nod, and launched into his report. The Legion advances without mercy. Expect losses to occur in less than three weeks at Sanctuaries South Eden, The Bastion on the Divide, and The Ancient…,

I did not ask you here to tell us when our brothers will die, or when we will lose our Sanctuaries, my son, the Patriarch interrupted, as though he had not slept in days, perhaps weeks. Jacob waited. I will not discuss our current tactical situation with you, nor bother you about details of the Legion’s march. However, I would answer that questioning look you have about why I summoned you. Jacob returned his face to a relaxed expression of composed indifference, although internally he was beginning to feel irritated at having his travels delayed to satisfy the curiosity of this old man. "I know what you are Jacob, what you do and why you do it. Your kind exists solely to make war, unlike those of us in the Temple who exist to give hope.

For centuries, we have fought off obliteration at the hands of the enemy by the blood of the Templar, and it has gotten us nothing but a stay of execution. We are dying, and our final breath draws near. Do you dispute this, Jacob?

Grunting, his response was less than cordial. Of course we are dying. We have been dying since the Fall, maybe before. The only thing that matters now is how we are going to be removed from this world, and what awaits in the next. I will be taken only at a cost of an ocean of demonic blood. When I die, it will be in a field of Legion corpses, slain at my hand. I will not leave this world in a whimper of hope and prayer, pleading with a God who does not listen.

The Patriarch was silent for a long moment. Jacob, there is something that I want you to see. Come with me, we must go into the catacombs.

Jacob did not have the time for useless reminiscing or wishful thinking. No, thank you Father, but I must depart. I have work to do.

Another long moment, and the old man seemed to fortify himself. Obey me today, Jacob. You must see this. There is work to be done even here, you will see.

Jacob, ever the soldier, was unwilling to disobey his superior. He relented and accompanied his Patriarch.

The Catacombs of Haven were home to thousands of dead mortals. The work of Jacob’s brethren was invariably fatal, only the particulars of where and at what cost mattered. Many were Templar, who had fallen defending the Sanctuaries. Many others were nameless heathens killed in the badlands, such as Kasim’s parents, sometimes with remains interred and sometimes only empty markers, engraved with names in the vain hope that their bodies could some day be recovered.

The two men walked in silence, pressing further into the depths of Haven, into the dank gloom. It became difficult to see, and the Patriarch Invoked an Illumination Prayer. They walked for the better part of an hour, descending deep into the bowels of Haven, finally arriving in front of a large set of double doors. The doors were ancient, perhaps millennia old. They were covered in what Jacob recognized as Celestial, or Angelic Script. The Tongue of Babel. Something was definitely strange about that door being there.

Through this door is something which is, in all likelihood, our final opportunity for salvation. We have been losing this war since it began, and unless you come with me now and pass this threshold, humanity is finished. Even the Soul’s Last Fire can’t save us now. There aren’t enough of us left for the Apotheosis to matter.

Don’t trivialize our twilight, Father. We are certainly meant for destruction, otherwise the Fall never would have occurred. If God intended this for a test, we have failed. These last few months will be a testament to our conviction, to see if we hold to courage and justice in the face of annihilation. No, I will pass through this door and see what you wish to show me, but not for any false hope of salvation. Lead the way.

The Patriarch passed his hand over the center of the door and incanted a verse in Celestial:

"To destroy that which is darkest, I freely sacrifice that which burns brightest. May our greatest fire purge all that is black."

What sort of secrets would reside in a chamber keyed to a specific verse in the tongue of Babel, Father? Angels can’t save us now, even if they cared to. We are forsaken.

Rather than answer, the Patriarch opened the door, and revulsion washed over Jacob. In the small room, the stench of blood and waste assailed him without mercy. There were braziers in each of the four corners, lit and emitting very strong incense. The walls were etched with Angelic Script, glowing fiercely. In the middle of the room was the horrifying reason why.

Celestial iron, called Celestium in alloy form, was very rare amongst mortals. In times past some very few relics of Celestium had been discovered by wandering Templar, usually in ancient tombs or temples so old even the faiths to which they were dedicated were lost. To see this much Celestium in one place was unheard of, and Jacob was sickened to realize the purpose of the structure before him. He had seen diagrams of sacrificial altars in books detailing the rites and practices of the ancient Pagan religions before the Fall, also in obscure demon worship cults. Never in all of his years had he come across one, let alone one in the process of being used. The altar was a six-sided star, two triangles inverted in amongst one another, constructed of a solid piece of the priceless metal, with more glowing Celestial sigils etched into its surface. Since the unification of the individual faiths into the Temple, such blatant symbols of distinct faith had been barred from Sanctuary worship sites. What he was witnessing was complete and utter blasphemy, and even without the grisly details of what was happening in the room, he would have been enraged. Seeing the creature in the agony of its death throes, then and there, made him sick with horror.

Perhaps if Jacob had not been so shocked, he would have heard the Patriarch begin his Invocation. If his senses had not been directly assaulted, with everything he stood for and believed in being perverted, he might have been able to react more quickly, perhaps in time to stop the leader and keystone of his faith. It was not meant to be. For the first time in his life, Jacob, First of the Templar for eighty seasons, was unable to react. As the rage and disgust took him, he instinctively drew his morning star, Duskfall. The weapon was cleared just as the elderly priest finished the Prayer of Docility. Jacob dropped his most trusted companion, and had only a brief moment to despair before he was completely pacified by the words of his Patriarch. Forcibly calmed, Jacob was able to survey the room without the emotion just purged from his soul.

The demon before him had been brutally tortured, its innards ripped out of its belly and splayed over its legs, spilling onto the altar. Where its blood pooled on the altar, the metal hissed and acrid smoke rose. Without feeling, Jacob observed that all of the demon’s limbs had been broken, its joints all distended. What was visible of its dark skin under all of the gore looked to be scorched, and the small crown of horns ringing its head had been savagely smashed apart. Even more revolting than the presence of the creature, here, in the heart of his faith, was the fact that the demon was completely aware. Blind hatred and fear were etched in its unholy face, and the unspeakable pain the foul creature had endured was clear. No manner of science or faith could explain how the demon was still alive, its survival of vivisection due to some other metaphysical means.

All of this registered in the instant in which Jacob fell prey to his Patriarch’s power. A simple Prayer of Docility, learned by all acolytes at an early age, yet delivered with such force and conviction from the old man that it completely overwhelmed Jacob’s defenses. He had no choice but to wait in calm expectation as the horrific scene unfolded before him. The Patriarch spoke. Do not think that I mean to mislead you here, my greatest of sons. This is an abomination of our faith, and has been done only at our darkest hour. The leader of the Temple seemed to age now. We are doomed, we are damned, we are slain, my son. There is no hope for us here on Earth. The only task left for us is to die, and that shall happen within the year. You know this, Jacob. You have fought longest and hardest among our warriors, and you know this to be true. We have held a conclave to discuss the manner of our departure from existence, and a solution was proposed.

Jacob stood placidly as the Patriarch unveiled further horrors upon him. We have damned you, Jacob. You and the other Templar we think can save us. To Hell itself we order you, to assault it from within. Tears welled up in his eyes, as this horrible act committed in the name of God was explained to the man it would affect. We are sending you to battle our enemy on ground we could never breach. Through this altar we have sent our best hope. They have already arrived in the Abyss, and begun their tasks. You are the last. It is fitting, as you are our greatest.

Through the haze of docility, Jacob was utterly baffled. To battle the legion of the damned on his beloved soil was noble. It was just... even righteous. Traveling to Hell itself was simply a quick and painful death, if he was lucky. He would have mentioned that fact in a calm and placid manner, but something in his Patriarch’s eyes stayed him. Something which terrified him. Then it hit him; a mere mortal could never survive in Hell. Even a great champion of the Temple like himself would be annihilated by the harsh environment of Hell. He crumpled inside. He knew that Jacob the Templar, Jacob Merethius, would not be going. The eyes of the demon on the altar seemed to sparkle with amusement for a moment through its agony. It knew. The damning words from the Patriarch came next, delivered through a voice of cold steel... the glistening in the eyes of the man the only sign that there was a soul left within him.

I, Patriarch of the Temple of the One God, do hereby cast you, Jacob Merethius, into Hell. I revoke all that for which you have atoned, and your place in Heaven at our Father’s side. You are condemned, and by the power vested in me by Divine Right, I hereby banish your soul. You are now as the damned, and as such I cast you into the Abyss. A tremendous power filled the room, and as the demon screamed out its life’s breath, the Patriarch intoned, Jacob Merethius no longer, I condemn thee to Hell. Be gone, wretch, and never return. You are dead to Earth, and you shall never again walk its soil. Be gone, damned, and may God have no mercy on your soul.

He screamed, and he screamed. A pain such as he had never before experienced fractured the compulsion of pacification. He felt his body being remade. His mind shattered like exploding glass. The horror of his betrayal was the only whole thought remaining in his mind, and Jacob clung to it. The demon on the altar screamed with him as Jacob launched himself at the man he now hated more than anything in Hell or Earth. He reached his former spiritual leader, but the old man had already Invoked the Shield. Jacob’s grasp fell away, and the agony overwhelmed him. The room seemed to implode and collapse, and he fell. The demon’s scream faded away as Jacob, First of the Templar, collapsed into darkness, despair and oblivion.

***

The altar was suddenly clean again, and the room was quiet. Jacob and the demon were gone, the ritual was complete. The Patriarch staggered to the wall nearest him and braced himself against it. His breathing was ragged, as the sheer hatred from Jacob had nearly broken his Invocation. Through the terrible guilt and anguish assailing him, he felt something else for the first time in years. Jacob, along with the others, now had the potential to do that which was impossible on Earth. Even though what had been done to their best spiritual soldiers was in truth a perversion of his faith and an abomination to humanity, the Patriarch knew that he had done that which was necessary. Yes, it had to be done, and as a result, through his revulsion and disgust, the Patriarch felt something he had almost forgotten how to recognize. The Patriarch felt hope.

Chapter Two

Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him: and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him. Even so, Amen. - Revelation 1:7

Hatred, vengeance, wrath, bloodlust. These assailed the creature’s mind as it fell, strangling all other rational thought like a choke-vine.

Those violent thoughts collapsed into alienation and nothingness, a confused sense of wrongness in reality. Then came heat. At first a welcome sensation in the numb, disconnected void through which it fell, the heat felt like a lover’s embrace. The heat became its reality, but it was not a gentle reality and the heat grew stronger. Intense agony blossomed. The heat became an inferno. It felt its skin catch fire and its nerves begin to sear away. The creature screamed, and its own voice sounded alien. Deeper, harsher. The pain was all-consuming, and its howl of despair became the primal sound of unbearable torture. The creature’s sanity began to erode. Suddenly the pain abruptly lessened, and it stopped being able to breath. It had struck something, hard. At first, it was only aware that it was not burning anymore. Either the creature’s nerves had been destroyed, or it was dead. Though if it was dead, why did it struggle for breath? It fought and gasped for air. Other sensations encroached. It, as it turned out, was male. He felt the somewhat familiar sensation of some anatomy mashed up against the surface he was laying on. Next, he noticed the cool beneath where he lay. Soil, dirt. It was earth he had struck. He basked in the absence of pain. The creature just lay still and drew breath. How long he lay there, he could not have said. Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. He breathed, with his eyes shut. Thought was slow in reaching him. He still wondered if he had died.

He slipped in and out of consciousness. With excruciating slowness, other sensations and awareness drifted towards him. The heat he had felt earlier normalized into a comfortable, ambient hotness. He began to feel functional. He opened his eyes. The skyscape was alien. The normal blue or whitish gray he was familiar with was absent. This was a sky of orange and red, though the sun was high above. This was not the Earth he knew.

The landscape surrounding him was dark, far darker than it should have been for how high the sun was. The sun. It was not the familiar, comforting yellow that he remembered. This star in this sky was a dark red, and far larger than Earth’s sun. It appeared to give out far more light than indicated by the ruddy horizon and dusky landscape. He sought to make sense of his new reality, of where he was, and how he came to be there. He glanced about his personage, noting with growing disquiet that he was dressed in tattered clothing, and that his skin was blackened with soot. He recalled being fair skinned. He stood and stretched his aching muscles, and as he sought to get his bearings he felt larger, more powerful than he remembered. Looking out upon the alien environment, it all came back to him. His name, the betrayal, his damnation. In a horrible, crushing despair, he nearly broke.

He remembered being born into struggle and desperation, told since the day he was born that his lot was to fight off the Infernal Legion with all his might and courage until the day he died. Jacob screamed rage, denial, and hatred. As he did, his hands came up before his eyes and he saw what he had become. He was Jacob Merethius no longer, having been corrupted into something else entirely by the Patriarch’s profane Invocation. His skin wasn’t merely darkened with ash as he had first thought, but actually changed under the black dust. He looked closer, and saw movement. His skin was crawling with sigils. They skittered across the surface of his arms and hands too fast for him to read, though he caught enough to get a sense of the language. It was Angelic Script, though twisted somehow, sinister and dark as it played across his flesh. What in God’s name had he become?

He was larger and more powerful than he remembered, and there was a tangible sense of something inside of him struggling to get out, stretching and scratching against the inside of his skin as if the archaic symbols flowing across his flesh were keeping something terrible and mighty from escaping. He lifted his hands to his face, running them across it. He had no beard left, it must have been burned off during whatever had transpired to bring him here. The same with his head, being as smooth as his face. He stood in mute horror, shocked and disgusted by what had happened. He had been betrayed by the only fellowship he had ever belonged to or believed in. His best friends and comrades would now view him with hatred and revulsion. They would try to kill him... even Piotyr.

This was Hell. Somehow he knew it. He had never seen the vistas of the Abyss before, nor had any mortal, but he knew it was so. Rationally, he also knew what he was, then. No mere mortal could survive here; it was too hot, too acrid, simply too hostile an environment for human flesh. He assumed that the nature of the altar and the ritual back in Haven was to infuse the wretched beast’s essence into himself. Bitterly, he conceded that it must have worked. Jacob. What a foolish name for me now. He stopped. He knew what he had meant to say, but his words sounded nothing like what they should have. Not only was his voice louder and harsher, though hoarse from his screams, but it was beautiful. He could think of no other way to describe it. Jacob had never been a vain man, and certainly had never been in love with the sound of his voice before, but the words he spoke now where breathtakingly wondrous. Such a voice could do justice to things majestic and beautiful. He laughed then, but the power of his voice stopped him. He felt the laughter, tangibly. He yelled again, this time not in hatred but with simple volume. His call resonated outwards, and he could sense the power of his shout in the air. He truly was changed. Not only in appearance then, but in the sheer magnitude of his personality. His strength in arms had always been his primary weapon, yet this voice seemed somehow mightier than a battalion of armored cavalry. This was a voice meant to topple empires, and sway the hearts of men.

What manner of demon had been on that altar?

Brief wonder and astonishment gave way again to bitterness, as he realized he would never again even speak to a human. Even if he knew where he was, he had no idea how to get back. His condemnation was utter and complete. Pity. For what had been done to him he would gladly spend his life to crush the Patriarch’s skull under the weight of Duskfall. Duskfall!

Frantically he gazed around the ground near him, and almost wept with relief when he saw his old friend laying, looking quite neglected, on the hard ground a few paces from him. Jacob moved with great purpose to where his weapon lay. Retrieving it, he lofted it in triumph over his head and screamed yet again. This time not in despair, or anguished betrayal, but in truly righteous wrath. The three foot iron shaft felt effortlessly light, with the wickedly flanged and spiked metal head looking scorched but intact. His voice was thunderous, and echoed across the land. The wrong he had suffered at the hands of the Patriarch, the mere thought causing the former soldier of God to spit on the ground, no longer mattered. They wished to cast him aside? Fine, he would be discarded. He renounced the Temple in that moment, no longer caring if the demons eventually came to Earth and slaughtered his former brethren like cattle or not. It would have happened anyway, he just now washed his hands of it.

His Church was dead to him, but his hatred for the Legion was alive and well. All that mattered to him now was to butcher as many demons as he could find. He would die here, but the death and carnage he would wreak would be a story told to frighten demonic soldiers for centuries to come. Millennia, perhaps. Jacob’s Wrath, they would call it. He knew he couldn’t kill them all; that was the futile truth of humanity’s struggle for the last 600 years. Haven would fall, and he would shed no tears for his patriarch’s skull, stoven in by a demon’s cleaver. Until then, though, naught but woe to any demon, Ba’al or otherwise, that found its way into Jacob’s sight until he burned his soul away.

He hefted Duskfall again, swinging it in an arc over his head. It felt so much lighter than he remembered; faster. It felt warm to the touch, and he examined it. Sigils were etched into the shaft, flanged head, and chain of his weapon, glowing and also moving too rapidly to decipher. He laughed again, this time a rich, deep, terrible mirth. A transformed weapon, wielded by a transformed man. The Patriarch could rot for all he cared, as he had his rage to let. When the Legion comes to Haven, and shatters its walls, and kills the last bastion of humanity,