Mizor (Chapter 14)

Template:Mizor nav The high steppe was broken here and there by vast pits, with a reddish light shining up from far, far below. They looked exactly like the Zakarumites said Hell did. Mizor didn't look down any of them. Heights made him nervous. Glowing red heights made him even more nervous. According to the Zakarumites, there was a river of flame down there, where certain sinners burned forever. Only certain ones; Zakarumite lore placed every sinner where they ought to be, according to their favorite sins; heretics here, suicides there, liars inside that thing. Why they spent so much time thinking about Hell and what awaited bad people, and not about the world and what good people should be doing, was anyone's guess. Mephisto, Lord of Hate, probably had a lot to do with it.

Moving ever downwards, Mizor led his band through vast plains of ash and sadness. The land itself seemed to suck the soul dry, it was getting hard to remember anything green, or a day that brought joy. When a huge ice demon, unlike anything else they'd met, screamed "Save yourself!" and attacked, Mizor could hardly even care. The ice demon was alone, but it wasn't until halfway through the fight that Mizor realized this must be the imprisoned angel. He was getting depressed; the whole plain radiated despair, and it was getting to him. After a very long fight, the demon broke, and a being of pure, beautiful radiance rose from the fractured body... laughing. Mizor had never heard an angel laugh before, but he was almost completely positive they weren't supposed to laugh like that.

Izual laughed at Tyreal. He laughed at the Horadrim, all of mankind, every effort that had been taken to oppose the Three Prime Evils. The assault on the Hellforge was a sham, Izual was working with the Three to destroy the world. He had freely told the Three how to corrupt soulstones, and use them to gain powerful mortal bodies for themselves. With those bodies, they could freely walk the earth, and bring their followers to destroy mankind. Boy, that angel could gloat. Gloat, gloat, gloat. Mizor put up a portal halfway through his speech and went back to the fortress, just so he didn't have to listen anymore.

Tyreal, when he learned of Izual's words, seemed concerned. It's a little hard to see facial expressions through all the glowing, but he wasn't happy. "We may have been played for fools all along," he opined. What do you mean WE, angelface? Mizor almost said. Cain was troubled too, with the knowledge that the whole Horadrim order, founded to combat the Three, may have been nothing more than part of their long-range plan. For all their efforts and sacrifices, they had been nothing but pawns. Mizor could see that was a terrible blow for the old man. Tyreal's reward was a nice one, though: knowledge. Not many have experienced pure knowledge, shining directly into their befuddled minds and sweeping aside a thousand misconceptions. But there's nothing more sobering and focusing in existence; now, even Hell itself held nothing to fear.

Below the plains was a huge dead city; it looked like ruins, but there were many inhabitants, Undead mages, flying spider-like things, and bloated crawling beasts. They lived in huge cages, and a blasphemous parody of a church, hung with chains that could imprison a god. Looking at the church, Mizor wondered why he'd used the word "blasphemous", he shouldn't care about a church. Unfortunately, "blasphemous" was the only word that fit. The price of an inadequate vocabulary. The plains didn't go any further. To descend, they would have to go down one of the fiery cracks into the ground. The one with a built-in set of stairs was probably the best choice.

The stairs led down into a huge cave, where, lo and behold, there was a river of flame, with naked dead people writhing in it. It certainly was hellish; the stairs didn't even have a safety rail. Down on the rocks floating in the flames, giant leggy maggot-worms, just like the ones in Lut Gholein's deserts, brooded eggs. The muscly pinheads from Jerhyn's palace were there too. Were other familiar monsters here, like some of those corrupted Rogues? They paused to look in the river, and while Paige didn't recognize anyone, Mizor thought he did.

Mizor: "Aa! Grrmrullaahg!" (Hey! Grand Uncle Mallog!)

Grand Uncle Mallog: "AAAAAAHHHIIIIEEEHHHHAAAAHHHHH!!!!!"

Mizor: "Uaaalleeghaaauuwaallauhd!" (Uncle, Aunt Hinnadix wants to know where you hid the key to the cedar chest in the bedroom closet! You didn't tell her before you died!)

Grand Uncle Mallog: "WAAAIIIEEEHURSOMUCHAAAAOOOAIEAIEAIEEEEE!!!!!"

Mizor: "Hruf." (Well, fine. Be that way.)

Grand Uncle Mallog had always been an old bastard. Maybe he'd have been nicer if he'd seen this place. Actually, he probably wouldn't have been; he'd have just stood there gloating over all the suffering. Some people are like that, gloat and gloat and gloat like they think they're too good for it to ever happen to them. Mizor was reminded of a certain angel. Speaking of angels, they needed to concentrate on finding this Hellforge thing. This was a good place for a forge, the river sure produced enough heat.

The Hellforge was on a peninsula, jutting out into the hottest part of the flames; it felt warm enough to melt steel. Working the forge was a fat, pink demon who looked... rather familiar, like the Smith who had the Horadric Malus, only bigger. Maybe they were related. After a serious mauling, the demon fell dead, and the Hellforge was theirs.