Azafar: The Red Hand, Chapter 2: The Enemy of my Enemy

A Tale by Mark Craig, set in the First Age of Man. 

“SERVE ME NOW OR PERISH THUS!”

Shock rolled through the chamber. Torches guttered, stones groaned, and the reek of scorched flesh rose from the High Priest’s remains. One by one, robed figures crumpled to their knees until half the Court of Ardour prostrated themselves before the mighty rakshasa Azafar, their foreheads pressed to the blood‑slick floor. Only a lone acolyte found the courage to raise his head.

“W‑what will you have of us, Lord?” he whispered.

Azafar’s tail flicked, scattering cinders from a fallen torch. 

“First,” he said, his voice like a blade drawn across stone, “tell me about the one of which you serve. Who is he, and where does he hide his craven heart?”

A grey‑robed scribe answered, words quivering as they rolled off his tongue: “The evil wizard Morgoth broods far to the north — far, far to the north, within the halls of Arkhon — where the walls are black as iron, and white towers stand in cruel irony compared to the darkness in which they are seated in. Legend says that such a fortress is cursed with an endless variety of traps; 100 floors, each one shifting and changing so as to warp the minds of those foolish enough to enter. None have breached it and lived, be warned, our most vile and vicious Lord.”

Azafar tasted the name of the oppressor in the air, and he quickly began to formulate an evil plan to get revenge for the disturbance of his eternal slumber. Then, a smile crept across the man-eating rakshasa’s face, and he puffed up his chest as he addressed the crowd of silver-masked cultists before him. 

“WE WILL STORM THE GATES OF ARKHON! WE WILL DESTROY THE WIZARD MORGOTH, FOR I AM RAKSHASA! WERE THE PATHETIC CUR TO SLAY ME, I WOULD RETURN, AND ENACT MY VENGEANCE TENFOLD UPON HIM! BOW DOWN TO YOUR ONCE‑AND‑FUTURE KING!”

The cultists gasped at such blasphemy none had ever dared to voice — but terror made them hold their tongues, all save for a lone serpent-staff bearer, his knuckles turning white around the twisted rod in which he held.

“No!” The cultist shouted. Dark fire surged along the cultist’s staff, gathering at its end ready to burst forth at a moment’s notice.

“You beast! You are no priest of Ardour, you are no lord of flame! YOU ARE NOTHING!” Then, the jet of black fire erupted forth in Azafar’s direction. Azafar moved mere moments before the impact. The eldritch blast soared past him, striking a kneeling follower square in the chest and enveloping him in flame. The smell of burning flesh immediately engulfed the room, and the man collapsed in a smoking ruin. Horrified cultists turned toward the staff‑bearer, who now trembled at what his rage had wrought. He had killed his own, and the Court saw it. Azafar raised one clawed finger in silent decree.

“Behold! This is what defiance brings.”

His glare nailed the serpent‑staff cultist in place.

“He has slain one of own — his hands are stained with the blood of Ardour. His life is forfeit.”

A breathless pause filled the room. Then the first dagger flashed. Another followed, accompanied by a flood of steel, fists and roaring voices.

“TRAITOR!”

“FOR Ardour!”

“FOR THE KING!”

Soon, the traitorous staff‑bearer vanished beneath the frenzy. When the punishment was wrought, silence settled heavily over the room. One by one the cultists turned toward Azafar, kneeling in supplication, and bowed their heads.

“We are yours, oh Great One.”

Azafar surveyed his new dominion — sputtering torches, pillars spattered with gore, the crowd before him, and the golden mask lying at his feet. In a single encounter, the Court of Ardour had traded masters, and a demon from beyond the material realm now held its leash. And, beyond these vaults, in the frozen wastes of the north, lay the ominous fortress of Arkhon. 

An army waited to be forged. A fortress waited to be taken. The hunt for Baran still lay ahead. But first came conquest, and the world would soon learn what rose from blood and shadow in the halls beneath the earth.

Suddenly, Azafar’s voice boomed forth unprovoked:

“BRING FORTH YOUR FINEST TACTICIAN, OH GREAT COURT OF ARDOUR!”

Faces turned. From the circle of kneeling cultists a lone figure crept forward, an elderly elf with silver hair, braided down his back. He bowed with respect and amusement both.

“I am Nimrul, the Shadow, royal tactician of Ardour. I have studied the wars of both Elf and Man. I have seen cities crumble and empires rise, only to falter and later perish. And now…” His ember‑bright gaze lingered on the Rakshasa. 

“Now I serve a new king.”

Approval rippled through the kneeling circle. Azafar’s tail curled, satisfied. 

“Tell me how to slay the wretched beast that governs your pitiful order.”

Silence descended so heavy the torches seemed to dim. Nimrul’s lips twisted into a smile. “You wish to slay Morgoth?” The question echoed in the chamber, and cultists began to mutter amongst themselves.

“You do not dream as lesser men do. No — you are far more… Interesting.”

Nimrul stopped, eyes gleaming. “Morgoth, ‘King of Warlocks.’ You wish to unmake the unholy champion of the Razu? Then hear me, O Beastly King.”

Nimrul folded his hands. “To slay a magic user on the level of Morgoth, one must find a way to first divest him of his power.” 

He raised one finger as he spoke, attempting to appear cool before the hungry eyes of the Rakshasa. “First, Morgoth’s armies must be broken and his lieutenants scattered. Grind his war machines to dust; that is the first step.” Haunting tales and ominous names hissed through the hall; dread captains, flame‑wreathed fiends, hosts bred in the abyssal forges of Arkhon.

A second finger rose. “Second, his fortress must fall. The gates of Arkhon must be flung open and the fortress gutted like a rotting carcass with its secrets laid bare. It is a prison for those who dare oppose him; you must be the jailer who turns the key.”

A third finger sprang up. “Third, he must be made vulnerable through magic means. When that evil god of the sun Razu put forth his champion into this world, he poured his very essence into his bones. Morgoth bleeds; he suffers — but he is still beyond us all.”

Finally, a fourth finger rose. “Fourth… The balance of power must be restored, and his final refuges shattered. The fragments of the Mage Stone  — pure, glittering fragments of Faelrith’s essence — fight against him, yet he covets them so. If one were to wield such things against him…” 

Nimrul’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Perhaps even a god could die.”

The hall remained utterly still. Azafar’s eyes narrowed like molten gold against orange fur. 

“What action, then, do you recommend for your King?”

Nimrul tapped a talon against an ancient map unfurled by trembling scribes. “First, we sever his supply lines: Iron, grain, even souls flow south through the Vale of Kharug. Alternatively, one could slay a lieutenant — the Fell‑Lord Khargul keeps his court at Grimwyche Keep, and his fall would send a clear message to Morgoth. One might also consider inciting rebellion amongst the locals, so as to occupy them whilst you strike from another angle. So, too, might one wish to raid the dark lord’s hoard; within his vaults lie weapons of ruin even Razu dares not wield. Or, perhaps you might wish to claim a fortress of your own. A king, after all, must have a kingdom.”

Azafar rose from the corpse‑strewn dais, shadow stretching across the crimson floor. Every masked face waited on the demon‑king’s decree, hearts hammering at the edge of a war none had dared imagine. The entire court leaned forward with bated breath to hear which limb of the supreme warlock would be severed first. Nimrul, on edge, was the first to speak.

“Well? What is your decree, my king?”

Azafar’s roar rolled through the cavernous hall.

“THIS PLACE IS MINE!”

Upon hearing the decree, velvet‑hooded heads dropped, and silver masks kissed the basalt f;ppr. A few murmured half‑formed prayers, some to Razu, some to nameless, trembling deities — but none dared contradict the new lord who sat astride a throne streaked with the High Priest’s blood.

Nimrul alone kept his feet. A trace of amusement flickered across his sharp Elven face as he folded his hands behind his back and regarded the ruined scepter beside the dais.

“Well then,” he said, voice smooth as drawn silk, “I said a king must have a throne, and now you have one.”

At the centre of the hall, the serpent‑staff of the slain High Priest lay where it had shattered, half‑submerged in a pool of drying blood. Nearby, the golden throne, its back decorated with the orasine-hued emblem of Razu, awaited its new king.

Azafar’s gaze swept the ranks of cowled figures. They straightened, but none raised their eyes. Azafar ascended the steps and seated himself, with his taloned fingers drumming on the gilded armrests. The cultists bowed lower still, murmuring their fractured prayers. 

Nimrul’s smirk lingered. “And what will you do now, my King?”

The pads of Azafar’s feet became sticky with drying blood at the foot of the throne, seemingly giving the demon an idea. Bending down and putting his dominant paw into the pool of the former High Priest’s blood, Azafar left a bloody pawprint on the front of every gleaming silver mask the gathered cultists wore. Seeing his work completed, Azafar’s gaze swept the hall of kneeling masks — this was his court now. A single purpose burned behind his eyes.

“I will hunt down this ‘Baran’ of House Varkon next, for it is true what they say — ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

To be continued…