The Screaming Skull

by Rick Ferguson

  “I YIELD!” Malacoda, Dire Malebranche of the Eighth Circle and loyal vassal to Beelzebub, cried out. “PRINCE ELBERON IS THE VICTOR!”

  With that pronouncement, I dropped the devil like a bad sandwich. I walked over to grab the game ball, laying on the ground nearby. Picking it up, I walked it over to the goal line, stepped across it, and flung the ball to the ground. Then I looked up to the gallery.

  “The judgement of Minos is final and inviolate,” said Rhadamanthus, standing from behind the long judge’s table. “Prince Elberon has won.”

  “BETCHYER ASS,” I said.

  31

  “EL-BER-RON! EL-BER-RON! EL-BER-RON!”

  Across the vast expanse of the arena, Fallen and damned alike roared their approval at my victory. Demons approved because they saw it as the triumph of Law over Chaos, devils because they enjoy seeing anything get fucked up, and the damned because they saw me as one of their own. Black roses fell as a soft rain upon the field, tossed by the Fallen ladies from the gallery. For a short while, I rocked the attention, rotating in a slow circle to absorb the cheers. I looked up to find the Ki-Rin in the gallery—but Jo was gone. Goddamned fickle Celestial. I was now in his fucking pocket, and he knew it. The only question was when the bill would come due.

  Behind me, Malacoda lay prostrate, supplicating himself to his Lord and King Beelzebub, who sat grimly in the gallery with his grotesque fly wings vibrating in short fits. Then the Lord of Flies stood, balancing himself on his little royal staff.

  “Thrice thou hast failed me, Malebranche,” said Beelzebub, his gurgling voice quieting the crowd. “Thy failure is utter, and thy failure is complete.” The devil turned to face King Minos, who sat his throne with cosmic impassivity. “King Minos, as a guest in your realm I of course defer to your authority over my vassal Malacoda. I ask your blessing to adjudicate his fate myself.”

  Rhadamanthus spoke for his king. “King Minos is pleased to grant you leave, King Beelzebub.”

  Now Beelzebub turned to his groveling vassal. “To the Arch-Devil Malacoda, I say unto thee: As is my right as thy King and right hand of the Satan Lucifer, I hereby strip thee of thy lands, titles, and duties as Dire Malebranche of the Eighth Circle. Thou art now among the lowest of the Fallen. Thou shalt serve as my slave, until such time as I consign thee to the Void.”

  “So mote it be,” said Rhadamanthus. From the near end of the arena a portcullis rose, and two massive, muscled and horned demons bearing the sigil of House Sathariel emerged from a brimstone tunnel leading back to the arena’s staging areas. Seizing Malacoda by the arms, they dragged him back toward the tunnel. As they did so, the devil dropped all pretense of humility and thrust a taloned claw in my direction.

  “YOU THINK THIS IS OVER?” Malacoda roared at me. “I’LL FIND YOU, FUCKSTICK! YOU HEAR ME? I’LL HUNT YOU FROM THE FIRST UNIVERSE UNTO THE LAST, AND WHEN I FIND YOU, I’LL FUCK YOU FOREVER! DO YOU HEAR ME, MORTAL? DO YOU—”

  The portcullis slammed shut, and the devil’s oaths dissolved into reverberating noise. That was the last I saw of Malacoda, former Dire Malebranche of the Eighth Circle of Hell, until he appeared on the end of a chain in Hundred Fountain Square three years later calling for my head. How Garrin had captured the devil, I wouldn’t learn for many years—until Malacoda came perilously close to fulfilling his promise to me.

  For the nonce, I was finally rid of that asshole. Standing in the arena, I was unsure of what to do next. I was in trapped in Hell, I now possessed two of Koschei’s Phylaxes, and now knew that both my own father and Jaspin Spellbinder had been playing me like a goddamned squeezebox. Could life get any more fucked up? Fortunately, Rhadamanthus came to my rescue.

  “Prince Elberon of Woerth,” said Rhadamanthus, resuming his spot at the Table of Judgement, “You victory is well won, but it appears your editor has taken his leave. If you will allow me, I will serve as editor in his stead. You may ask a boon of me, if you so desire.”

  I did so desire. Lifting my hands to the Skull still burning like a butane torch atop my shoulders, I touched it, wondering how in hell I was ever going to get my own skull back again. Lucky for me, touching it was all that was required. My vision filled with light, descended into utter blackness, and then slowly resolved into the surrounding arena again—only this time, I was seeing it with my own eyes. Somehow, my own skull, which Melinda had been holding for me, had reappeared on my shoulders, complete with the rest of my head. In my hands, the Screaming Skull now stared up at me, leering at me with its fanged grin, laughing at me behind the shadows of its eye sockets. I had wielded the thing, but I hadn’t mastered it—and the Skull knew I was its bitch.

  “The Skull. The Girdle I wear,” I called up to Rhadamanthus. “These are the tools of Koschei the Deathless, and I do not wish them to become my doom. I beg your leave to destroy them—or, if they cannot be destroyed, I ask that you allow me to leave them here, in the safekeeping of King Minos of Limbo.”

  There was a pause as Rhadamanthus communed silently with his pale King, still sitting his throne with utter passivity. Then a crack appeared before me in the hard, dusty sand of the arena floor. Ugly crimson light spilled from this crack, which widened until a small lake of raw Hellfire burned at my feet.

  “These things cannot be destroyed here, Prince Elberon,” said Rhadamanthus, “But King Minos does grant your second request. You may imprison these Phylaxes in Hellfire, if you wish.”

  Bowing low before King Minos, I took a final look at the Skull, wished it a silent fuck you, and then tossed it into the burning lake. It bobbled there in the magma for a moment in silent reproach. Then it slipped beneath the surface and was gone.

  Next, I moved to doff the Girdle for good. No more stone-giant strength, which was a bummer. Better to be a weakling again than to possess any relic of the Deathless. My hands grasped the buckles—

  —and the Girdle tightened around me like a python. What the fuck? I thought.

  I grabbed it by the straps and pulled, and it pulled right back, threatening to crush my ribcage. Goddamn it, the thing wasn’t going anywhere. It was mine, whether or not I wanted it—and it meant that whatever doom my father had set in motion, when he ensured that I found the thing beneath Chasm Falls five years earlier, still loomed before me. The Quest was my fate, and no amount of free will was going to change it.

  Looking up to Rhadamanthus again, I shrugged. “One out of two, right?” I said. “And now, your Satanic Highness, if there’s a way to, you know—”

  Before I could finish the sentence, I found myself once again standing before the Hellmouth in the catacombs below the Blue Falcon. The very foundations of those catacombs were now bucking and twisting as the quantum vortex tore them apart. I whirled around—and saw Melinda standing behind the closing doors of the Hellmouth, prepared to sacrifice herself to save the souls of the innocent.

  “Come back!” I cried.

  32

  Those words echoed in my mind as, nine years later, I stood staring at the Astral Telescope for the first time. On the telescope—a simple contraption that belied its abilities as perhaps the most powerful spying device on Woerth—hung a note written on parchment, presumably by Redulfo the Black, although how a fat-fingered dragon could handle a quill, I couldn’t say. My three friends and I read the note together. It said:

  Your Quest continues here. Unless you rescue her, she won’t be able to rescue you. If she doesn’t rescue you, you won’t be here, and your Quest will end. Use this telescope to find her, and then step through the mirror. Remember, you have the power to change this universe. If you don’t change it, you can’t save it.

  “We need Redulfo here to tell us what the hell this means,” said Amabored.

  He wasn’t wrong. We had left our friend behind twice: once when we sent young Redulfo back through the blue mirror to rejoin our younger selves nine years earlier; and once again when we left the desecrated carcass of Redulfo the Black lying on the field of battle. It’s bad enough when a friend dies;
watching him die twice by your own hand is a little less enjoyable than drinking a bucket of warm piss.

  Leaving the dragon behind with our hearts burdened, we navigated our way around the dead insectoids and found the stone path leading down from the Wilderness of Mirrors to the great, slowly-rotating platform upon which stood the Workshop of Telescopes, surrounded by the smoking remains of the dragon’s army. That architectural, scientific, and sorcerous masterpiece, constructed by the wizards Gygax and Rigsby five hundred years ago, truly astounded. Its ornate, garishly-painted towers, spires, and domes loomed over our heads as we stepped onto its timepiece foundation and entered through its main gatehouse, which had been left yawning open after the dragon’s doomed army had marched through it.

  Once inside, we were flabbergasted. We saw a vast interior observatory supporting scores of platforms large and small, upon which stood hundreds of telescopes ranging in size from nautical spyglasses trained on individual universes to gargantuan lenses designed to peer deep into the Multiverse. A hundred feet overhead, the massive domed ceiling was pierced by a multitude of sliding panels that allowed the telescopes access to the sky. This network of telescopes, platforms, and panels was connected by an elaborate system of gears, chains, and pullies designed to rotate any telescope to any position within the observatory. The young Redulfo would have had his mind blown by the Workshop; were he ever to see it, he might devote the rest of his life to mastering it. By the time he did see it, what little remained of the wizard was living too hellish an existence to appreciate its wonders. As we wandered aimlessly through the observatory, we silently pondered the cruel machinations of the universe that had led us to twice kill our friend.

  In a satchel depending from Malcolm’s shoulder rested a jar containing the Bad Brain, floating in a solution of water, vinegar, and salt. Despite its current state, the vile green organ pulsed with undying malevolence. I had convinced each of the others to take a turn carrying it, rather than saddling me with it for who-the-hell-knew how long. Why should I have all the fun?

  Despite our success in capturing the Brain, we were each fully aware of our utter failure thus far in fulfilling the Ki-Rin’s charge. In the five years since Jo had appeared to Cassie, we had managed to procure only five of the ten Phylaxes: The Girdle and Skull, the Fell Phallus, the Horrible Heart, and now the Bad Brain. The Skull and Phallus were stored safely in the Bilge Rat’s hold under the protection of Quid Saltwind. We needed to get the Brain to the ship as well, which meant a long and perilous journey back to the Were Coast, the thought of which left me antsy. Sure, I wanted to save the Woerth—but I also wanted back in Cassie’s pants. Our parting in Collanna three years prior had been bitter, after she had laid into me for soft-pedaling the Quest. With real progress to report, I might have a shot at her forgiveness—but business came first.

  Before we could travel again, we needed to heal and rest. Fortunately, the Hand had afforded us the opportunity; when the dragon’s Paralyzation spell had worn off, the insectoids had not assaulted the Workshop, opting instead to return through their mirrors to wherever they holed up. Tomorrow, we would dispatch Lithaine and Malcolm to retrieve James and Wilberd, assuming they were still alive. Amabored and I would remain at the Workshop to guard the place from intruders. First, however, we needed a meal and a fresh store of supplies. With whatever servants who tended the Workshop now gone, that need sent us exploring the place—until we found the Astral Telescope, and the note that Redulfo had left behind.

  I read the note again. The events of nine years earlier came flooding back to me, as vividly then as the Remembrance potion allows today: the battle with Malacoda, the children disappearing into the Hellmouth, and Melinda’s determination to save them. Six months later, she had reappeared to me as if from the dead, carried to Redhauke on a litter borne by Cloud Riders. What had happened to her during those six months? Of the time between the Hellmouth doors closing and her awakening at the feet of the Celestial Stairway, she could recall nothing. And yet somehow, she had returned alive.

  Unless you rescue her, she won’t be able to rescue you. If she doesn’t rescue you, you won’t be here, and your Quest will end.

  I understood—or at least, I thought I did. I’m not actually very bright, as my father would never tire of telling you. I did, however, have my moments. Stepping forward, I pressed my eye to the telescope’s eyepiece.

  At first, I saw nothing but a reflection of my own eyelashes. Then the image cleared, and I saw two figures—a man and a woman—on a road approaching a great city slumbering beneath a black sun motionless in a pallid sky. The man I didn’t recognize. Of the woman’s identity, however, there could be no mistake: It was Melinda. The city I didn’t recognize either, but the sight of that motionless black sun jolted my memory, and I understood: Melinda was in Hell. I was watching her on her journey through the Infernal Realm to rescue the souls of the seven children lost to Malacoda.

  I stepped back from the telescope. Just as I thought—opposite it stood a mirror, through which pale light emanated. That mirror, I knew, was a one-way ticket to Hell. If I didn’t step through it to aid Melinda in her quest, then our own Quest would end here.

  If Redulfo the Black wanted to prove that free will exists, then how would he explain this path, which eliminated all possibility of another? We couldn’t ask him, because he was dead. At seeing Limbo again, the time I spent in Hell came back to me—the Crush the Kobold match, defeating Malacoda, and my opportunity to beat my old man clean. Perhaps that was the proof. By changing history, had I introduced the free will that the dragon had been so determined to prove? Who the hell knew?

  I took a moment to explain the situation to my mates. They listened as if I was recounting my plan to grow an extra head. Despite their best efforts, however, they couldn’t deny the path that now lay before us.

  “I have to go,” I told them. “You don’t. You can continue the Quest without me.”

  “And miss the chance to slay hellspawn on their home ground?” asked Malcolm. “Surely you jest, friend Elberon.”

  “Without us to save your ass, you won’t last five minutes in Hell,” said Amabored.

  “You got that right,” said Lithaine.

  Amabored thrust out a gloved hand. In turn, each of us also extended our hands, until the four of us stood together, one hand atop another, united in our mission.

  “Let’s go save the ex-wife who probably wishes you were dead,” said Amabored.

  33

  They were my brothers and best friends, these men. I could ask for none better. As I sit here today, mulling their end from the safety of my throne, it’s hard to believe that we ever mattered so much to one another. In the long years after the Quest, we survivors drifted inexorably apart, our lives intersecting ever less, until our infrequent reunions served only to remind us of how far apart we had grown. And yet, on that day, and throughout the long years of the Quest, I would gladly have died to save any one of them.

  Now, in nine days, they’ll have the opportunity to die for me.

  You’re wondering now why I want to kill them. Have I truly gone mad? Or is it all part of some secret plan to thwart you? Yes, I know you’re reading, even as my scribe records my tale in real time. If the Seven are meant to destroy the Woerth in ten days, as Amabored’s prophecy promises, then killing my friends seems pointless, no? And yet I mean to do it anyway. To jump-start my plan, I’ve dispatched the gnome Xingo on a mission, and aren’t you dying to know what that mission is?

  You’ve no choice but to keep listening, therefore, in the hope that I’ll reveal some clue that will help you divine my plan. And listen you will, because I’ve more tale to tell. It’s a tale of epic high adventure. In it, we’ll descend into Mormant and stand on the shore of the Sunless Sea. We’ll march with the Knights of the White Rose as Eckberd’s Chaos Army threatens to destroy the Tall Tree of Helene. We’ll journey from the ruins of the Sky Ship in the Pustiu Waste to the court of the Empress Wilomina; from the Four Wi
nds Bar at the Nexus to the halls of the Violet Queen; and from the high plains of the Goldvale to the blasted wasteland of the Dread Plain itself. We’ll journey to Hell and back.

  We’ll journey together, you and I, because our fates are intertwined. And I’ll tell you this: I know who you are, fucker. To find out how I know, and what I plan to do about it, you’ll just have to keep listening, won’t you?

  They call me a hero. They call me a leader of men. The truth is that I was never really a hero; I only pretended to be one. Is there time yet to become one? We’ll see. Perhaps this decrepit, broken-down adventurer has a few surprises left in him yet.

  THE END

  The Chronicles of Elberon continue in Vol. II:

  The Mace of Malice

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  A Helpful Timeline

  Yr. 3935: Elberon is born.

  Yr. 3943: Elberon (age 8) and Elderon fight a duel at Olderon’s behest.

  Yr. 3951: Elberon (16) finds a magic girdle in a cave outside of Tradewind.

  Yr. 3954: The Crush the Kobold match. Elberon (19) is banished from the Tradewind Lordship by his father. He journeys to Redhauke and meets Amabored, Lithaine, and Redulfo. He enters the city. He meets Jaspin Spellbinder.