Forty One
The Ruins of the Capital, the Dead Lands
The mighty stone doors of Mammon's royal hall swung back as a familiar creature marched forth for an audience with the Demon Lord.
"The crone mentioned you'd be arriving soon," Mammon rolled a gem in his clawed fingers. He sat dismissively on his pilfered throne as the wiry shapeshifter approached him.
"I am Cassius, your highness," Cassius bowed courteously. He had been assured by his master that Mammon wouldn't harm him, but Demon Lords were very volatile.
"I know, I know, the Crow's pet," Mammon waved his hand. "You have new orders,"
Cassius nodded meekly.
"Groll!" Mammon bellowed.
A muscular ogre with a horned helmet, flowing cape and gigantic maul over his shoulder stepped into the room. "My liege?"
"Azazel has had another prophecy," Mammon explained with a sigh, expecting another wild goose chase by his burdensome leader. "You are to take your soldiers south east to the outskirts of the Dead Lands and wait for further instructions! Take this whelp with you."
Groll bowed his head.
He hated being an inferior, before his mighty clan had been assimilated into the forces of the Demonic Legion, he was a proud Warchief.
These days he was waiting hand and foot on the Demon Lords, dispatched for seemingly pointless errands.
Groll lamented his old glory days, when he strangled the mighty ashen rhino, assumed the mantle of Warchief of the War-mauls and fought in proud, glorious war.
He had feasted on long pig and haunches of mighty beasts around large fires and answered to nobody.
When Demonic Legion expansion swallowed up War-maul territory, the Demon Lords gave him a simple choice:
Join or perish.
He chose the prior and bent his knee to the Demonic Legion hoping to save his clan. Some days he wished he had taken the latter.
To prevent any insurrection Groll was branded with Mammon's mark, a reminder that he was a minion of Mammon and nothing more.
He was presented with a demonic warhorse that day and given a modest legion of soldiers to lead. Mainly a small mix of goblins and trolls with a few of wild ogres, and of course Mammon's most loyal servants- the Culled.
The Culled were a legion of skeletal soldiers, crafted from the bones of ancient warriors and revived as mindless drones, they served Mammon without question and fought without mercy.
"Your army is in the courtyard, Groll. Don't mess this up," Mammon sneered as the emasculated ogre marched with Cassius into the dusty expanse outside the palace ruins.
Mammon grinned with his serrated teeth; he loved the psychological torture of this once-proud warrior.
Like The Capital and the royalty that sat upon it, Groll's tribe was a figment of the past.
The Demon Lord frowned once more as he recalled Archdemon Azazel's obnoxious decrees.
"He will not stay in favor if I have anything todo with it."
His immensely powerful older brother, the embodiment of pride had a long fall ahead of him.
Over time Mammon would do everything he could to undermine Azazel's rule and replace him at their old master's side.