Souldancer Deleted Scene: The Taming of Hazeroth

In hell's Third Circle a motley crowd gathers beside a river of blood. No two hideous congregants are alike. Yet all share a bloodthirsty fascination for the spectacle playing out in their midst.

The demon mob encircles a single figure. He resembles a being of the Middle Stratum far more than any of the infernal denizens surrounding him. But his skin is sallow, and his eyes are the same sanguine hue as the tainted river. His hands grip the fossilized wings of some eons-old reptilian giant, joined end to end by a shaft of bone. Sometimes they seem to move by their own power.

At some imperceptible signal one of the monstrous onlookers enters the ring. The stone wings blur, and he is cut down. Undeterred, another demon lunges at the sallow man and meets the same end.

Like a dam bursting, the circle closes around the lone figure at its center, devolving into a mindless fray. The first charge ends poorly. None of the fiends get closer to their foe than the point of his blade. The demons close ranks and fall back, forming a wider circle than before.

The swordsman brushes black curled hair from his forehead. His bloody eyes betray his lust for more.

"Hazeroth," a deep clear voice resounds across the blood-soaked plain.

The demons cow as if struck. The circle parts, admitting a towering figure in lavish gold robes. An expressionless white mask with a ruby in its brow hides his face.

The swordsman turns at the sound of his name. "You disturb my sport."

"If I must. The word I bear to you takes precedence."

Hazeroth points a long-nailed finger at the masked messenger. "You will have to wait your turn."

"I am ill disposed to suffer delays."

The masked figure lifts his arms. Sickly yellow light bursts from beneath his golden robes, sweeping the demon mob away like a pile of burned leaves.

Hazeroth scowls. "Your aid was neither asked nor wanted. If you would treat with me, it will be on my terms."

In a motion that would bewilder the human eye, the swordsman covers the distance to his intended victim and shreds the golden robe with one swing of his double sword. Suddenly he no longer stands on the bloody river's bank, but on a broken sheet of coal-black rock. A golden glow limns the horizon, and a single white point glows faintly in the dark sky.

"Hazeroth!" the same booming voice cries again. This time, it seems to emanate from everywhere at once. "I am the Will of Shaiel. Here, in my seat of power, you shall heed me."

The swordsman tries to move, but the cold turns his muscles to dried wood.

"High honor is set before you," Shaiel's Will declares. "My lord would have you bear his blade. What say you?"

"I am a prince of hell," Hazeroth says through clenched teeth. "Others swear their blades to me!"

"And many more yet shall. Serve in Shaiel's kingdom, and he will restore your own. Yea, it shall have tenfold increase."

The demon prince tries to struggle; fights even to move. The cold is relentless: seeping into his bones; creeping toward his heart.

"I will serve," he groans at last.