Into the Hells

by Christopher Johns

  From what I could make out, they were chipped and on their last legs, but as soon as they were dropped in front of him, he was up and in motion.

  He swiped once, lashed out with his foot and then stabbed with his other weapon, and both lesser demons were dead and laying at his feet. He began to sprint at the portal, but it snapped out of existence. He came to a halt, a cloud of dust and debris behind him, kicked up from his mad dash.

  He snarled at something and then bellowed angrily.

  A loud, booming voice belted against our ears, laughing, “Do not worry, my pet, you will be able to destroy more soon, fret not.”

  I blinked and scanned the sides of the walls, trying to pinpoint where the sound came from but didn’t find anything outright until Bokaj tapped my shoulder and pointed. Directly across from us on top of some sort of box, like a closed in portion to watch from, stood another hulking figure.

  He basically looked like a twelve-foot-tall carbon copy of Archemillian, but this demon was all kinds of roided out. His muscles had muscles. He wore a black suit of armor with gold filigree on it in the shapes of screaming figures. The helm on the ground beside him had room for his horns to jut out, and his eyes were pitch black.

  “Demons of this fine city, of the third circle of the Hells, thank you for your attention!” The figure waved to boos and hisses from our side of the stadium, while more and more on his side cheered and applauded. “Yes, I know we are not united yet, but we shall be. Too long have we been warring against ourselves, fighting over scraps! Waiting to be summoned by some horrid creatures to do their bidding, make them more powerful. No more!”

  The crowd on his side of the stadium went wild. Balmur spat, his weapons clutched in scarred hands. His left eye—the one that he had chosen to sport a scar on for the look of it when we first arrived—was now well and truly gone. A huge gash was still healing over it in a mirror of what he had thought looked aesthetically pleasing.

  “We will unite, and then we shall make them all ours! Then we shall take out our displeasure on all of the realms—not just the Prime but also the Fae, the elemental, the abyssal! All of them!”

  “Oh, he has General written all over his big dumbass face,” Yohsuke spat.

  “Yup,” James grunted.

  “Ytteriol! Lord of this City, I challenge you for your right to rule! Send your champion against mine and let us see who negotiates stronger!” The figure shoved his fist skyward, and the crowd lost their minds. All of them. I took that to mean this didn’t happen often.

  “Would that that could happen, Melvaren!” Archemillian called, his throat glowing slightly as his voice radiated outward. “However, it will be you who answers the challenge today.”

  “Archemillian, you vile rat. You would wait until now,” the other demon spat. “You stand so staunchly in the way of progress—in the way of new leadership and the way things ought to be, that you are too blinded by petty power to recognize real opportunities when you see them.”

  “If you would please keep your tripe to a minimum, pretender, it would be appreciated. You are merely a demon possessed by something who knows how to manipulate. I believe it was called a ‘General of War?’ And I have on good authority a way to soundly see you out of meddling in our affairs.”

  “I’m more demon than you are,” Melvaren postured with his hands out to his sides. “Who is it that has sent more demons to the Prime realm in eons? Me.”

  “Yes.” Archemillian nodded sagely before pointing an accusatory finger at the other demon. “By way of lesser beings! Beings unfit to summon our true power. The demons you sent forth died—painfully—only to be robbed of the souls they garnered in unsanctioned deals by you.”

  The crowd around us and even on the other demon’s side became rather close to rioting, shrieking and spitting curses in multiple languages.

  “People of this fair city!” Melvaren, clearly angered at the accusations, bellowed to the crowd. “I assure you, these slanderous words are simply untrue. Unfounded! I assure you, my innocence is clear.”

  “Funny thing for a fucking demon to say,” I grumbled sarcastically.

  “Prove it!” I heard an imp to our right bellow.

  Some bone-like demon above us shouted, “Blast him to the inner circles!”

  “I challenge you for the right of right!” Archemillian challenged. “Your champion versus my own. Winner has the right of these findings. Should your champion out negotiate mine, you can freely challenge the Lord of the City.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Melvaren’s eyes went cold. Calculating.

  “Then you are guilty of all accusations against you and are subject to the same laws as the rest of us, though you are a pretender and a charlatan of the vilest sort.” Archemillian smiled, his face taking a smug look.

  “My champion is undefeated.” Melvaren raised his horned head.

  “And my own is untested.” Archemillian spread his hands as if to show all. “You would truly be an idiot not to answer this challenge,” the taunting demon raised his brows in mock surprise, “or did you want to add ‘coward’ to the list of things you’re accused of?”

  “Fine!” the pretender called, “but if you lose, I get those mortals in your care.”

  To his credit, Archemillian didn’t even flinch. Or had he known this would happen?

  “If you win, you may break them all here in this very place with no one to stop you,” as the crowd began to stand and applaud, Archemillian held a hand up to quiet them, “but should you lose—they will break you on the Lord of the City’s behalf.”

  Another booming voice surrounded us all, “I find this turn of events both fortuitous and entertaining. Archemillian, Melvaren, this thing will happen and has my favor. Winner take all the other has. Melvaren, should you lose, you lose all standing, possessions, and souls. The only way to regain some semblance of dignity will be to face Archemillian’s guests and win. Should Archemillian lose, he loses his guests and all his holdings, souls, and anything to his name. Are both parties satisfied?”

  Archemillian nodded his head once, and Melvaren followed suit, although he looked considerably more shaken.

  “Then let the negotiations begin!” the voice—I assumed that it belonged to the Lord of the City—roared and the crowd went nuts.

  Bokaj nodded to each of us, a look of nervousness replaced by determination on his face before he hopped down into the sandy area and began to cautiously approach his best friend.

  “Hey, buddy… how you been?” he began softly, hands out to his sides.

  “Slave!” Melvaren spat. Balmur’s head snapped to him with a deep, guttural growl. “No mercy, or do you want to visit my Hall of Tender Graces again?”

  The nearly feral Dwarf growled again as he turned back toward Bokaj.

  He’s not gonna be fuckin’ gentle, guys, Yohsuke warned. Bokaj, get that bow out and stick to the plan. You can do this. He needs you to be hard in this moment.

  That’s what she said, Muu interjected to the rest of us.

  Dude, now is so not the time, Jaken reprimanded softly.

  Sorry.

  “I’m half tempted to fall for that disguise again,” I just barely heard Balmur over the din of chanting around us. “You wouldn’t be the first of these dicks to come at me trying to feign my friendship. Lying to my face.”

  “It’s not a lie, buddy. It’s me, Bokaj. You and I have been friends since I don’t know when,” Bokaj offered, still refusing to outright draw his weapon. “I even have T’ here. I know you miss your fiancée, and I know you miss Gatsby. You remember your little dog, right?”

  Balmur roared and just fell into his shadow and disappeared. Not good.

  Move! I bellowed at Bokaj through our earrings.

  Luckily, the Ranger’s reflexes were on point, and he was able to dodge both swipes at his legs as Balmur burst from his shadow beneath his feet. The blades of his Mountain Fangs caught the edge of Bokaj’s shirt and sawed through slightly.

  As Bo
kaj rolled up on to his feet, he had to dash away from the pursuing feral Dwarf. Gone were the precise swipes and jabs he had shown us once earlier. They were replaced by a bloodthirsty drive to destroy and kill his offender.

  You all can’t see his level, but I can and holy fuck! Bokaj began and dodged out of the way of another attack, just barely getting out of the way. Level 35!

  Our boy’s been busy. Damn it.

  Tmont bounded out of Bokaj’s hood and yowled at Balmur. The Rogue blinked at the cat, her form growing but her look of pleading unchanged.

  “Master’s friend!” I could almost feel Tmont’s heart break seeing Balmur this way. “You’re back! Don’t hurt Master. He loves you! I love you too. Come feed me and rub my belly like you used to.”

  Balmur’s legs trudged forward as a haunted look fell over his face. “Not her too. Not again. Not T’. I expect everyone else but not her too.”

  “It’s cool, man,” Bokaj tried to soothe his friend as he walked toward the panther.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll free you T’. You don’t have to be played by some cruel demon ever again, baby.” As he closed the distance, the Rogue fanned his arms out, flames wreathing his weapon in his ancestral Heart Flame ability. I had seen him use it multiple times before, but he was brandishing it at his best friend’s pet.

  “Don’t you do it, Balmur!” Bokaj cried. I looked up in time to see three arrows soar through the air from his Wild Bow before they met Balmur.

  Balmur’s body moved almost as though without thought, slicing cleanly through two of the arrows and lifting a foot to guide the last arrow toward Tmont.

  The panther hissed as the arrow passed narrowly beside her face, slicing her cheek and shaving three percent of her health away. Tmont didn’t sit and just take that, though. While his attention was off her, she pounced and pulled him down to the ground. Her piteous whines of not wanting to hurt her Master’s best friend punctuated by his unintelligible cries of anger at the beast holding him down.

  Two arrows sprouted from his shoulder. He grunted in pain before looking at Bokaj and making the shape of a gun with his right hand and ‘firing’ toward him. I recognized the spell instantly.

  Fireball! Move!

  Bokaj threw himself to the left and still got caught in the blast radius of the spell. It tossed him ten feet into the air, and Balmur melded into Tmont’s shadow before she could savage him any further. Bokaj was hurt, his health at seventy-five percent. Not too bad yet, but I had a feeling it would get worse.

  He’s going to go for her again, get there, Yohsuke pointed out.

  Keep the commentary minimal for now. He’s so much stronger than before. Fuck, Bokaj panted into our heads.

  Then use your bardic shit on him. Make him stop! James implored.

  Balmur was up again, screaming out of the cloud of smoke after Bokaj but throwing one of his Mountain Fangs at Tmont.

  No. He wasn’t about to use that, was he?

  The Dwarf’s form shimmered and blinked from his previous position behind Bokaj and reappeared feet from Tmont.

  Fuck, I growled mentally.

  Tmont’s form grew, doubling the size of her already large panther form, and she batted at Balmur as he closed the distance. He took a solid blow to the dome, but he used the momentum to shift out of the way as her second clawed paw swung toward his legs. He hopped on to her back near the shoulder and hacked into the side of her leg once with one weapon, her angry roar turning into a scream of agony as he stabbed the bladed portion of his other weapon into her neck.

  “TMONT!” Jaken, Bokaj and I shouted in unison.

  I felt a burning hand on my shoulder. Archemillian looked down at all of us. “If you interfere now, they perish and so do your chances of winning. Sit!”

  We grudgingly did as we were bid and sat down.

  By the look of hurt and understanding that dawned on Bokaj’s face, he knew that the kid gloves had to come off.

  “That’s it. You leave her alone and come for me!” he roared, fear and desperation beginning to show in his features.

  Balmur looked up from where he stood on the now-shrinking panther’s shoulder with tears streaming down his face. “You took her from me! You monsters make me kill my friends every other day for more than a year so that I could fight for you in some fucking petty power struggle!”

  He stomped off Tmont, her health ebbing from her body slowly but steadily from the massive wounds to her shoulder and neck.

  Balmur continued his lamenting, “I can’t even kill myself to make it stop! I tried to, and you keep bringing me back. Making me kill things. Messing with my head.” Bokaj tried to move closer, but the crazed Rogue wouldn’t allow it.

  He stopped only a few feet away from Tmont and motioned back to her. “So after I kill that thing, I’m going to kill you because at least when I win, it takes them a little while to work up the will to torture me with having to watch my friends die.”

  Balmur turned his back on Bokaj and wept as he walked toward Tmont. She tried to crawl away from him, but he threw a Mountain Fang into her back; she screamed into the air.

  The crowd roared, their bloodlust close to being at least partially sated.

  Suddenly, I heard something shatter, felt something break, and as I wondered what it could be, I watched Bokaj step in front of Balmur and put a hand on his chest. He had used the ring I’d made!

  “Freeze,” he ordered, and Balmur did. Bokaj threw his hand back toward Tmont, and greenish, pale-blue light enveloped her. Her health shot up to half, and the bleeding lessened as her wounds closed.

  Bokaj looked back at his best friend and pulled him into a hug before driving three arrows with black ribbons tied around them into his back.

  Balmur’s health plummeted, then began to siphon out of his body. Faster and faster somehow. Then I looked down into Archemillian’s hand to see a vial of growing, red liquid cupped secretly there.

  He saw me notice it and simply held a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  I watched as Balmur’s life faded, and before he faded, recognition flitted into his eyes.

  Bokaj, cheeks slick with tears, whispered something I couldn’t make out as he slowly knelt with his friend’s corpse in his arms.

  When the body rested on the ground, the roar of approval from the crowd was deafening.

  “You may go to them now,” Archemillian whispered. “Make what preparations you can while I stall them, and do not mention this. This was a gift. All will be explained later, should you survive.”

  We didn’t wait to hear the rest. A roar of denial came from Melvaren as he watched what was happening.

  “There is some sort of trickery to this! There is no way my champion was bested!” he howled and stamped his foot.

  We booked it straight to Balmur and Bokaj. I cast Heal on T’, then Regrowth to be safe. Her health bounced up rapidly, and she meowed, “Thank you.”

  Jaken set to work on Balmur immediately while Bokaj fiddled with the Dwarf’s hand. I watched him put his bow over his shoulder and say a little prayer as he slid the three black ribboned arrows into his inventory.

  Surround me. This ain’t gonna be pretty if they realize what I’m doing before it’s done, Jaken ordered. We complied.

  I heard him praying. Lifting his thanks to Radiance and asking her to guide this lost soul back to his body. I heard him grunt as his mana drained, then his sigh of relief when the spell seemed to take hold.

  He’s back, but I don’t know what kind of shape he’s gonna be in. Jaken sighed. He pulled out several of the medium mana potions and downed them. His mana flowed back to full in seconds, and with a belch, he groaned.

  “Bad idea, that.” His sour look worsened as he heard what was said around us.

  “Well, Melvaren, it seems that your negotiator has lost his edge and life. And you are wrong. Now, hold to the terms of our negotiations and prepare for your lesson.” Archemillian’s smug tone slid over my nerves like a cheese grater over an open wound.
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  Fuck that guy, his schemes, and this place.

  But I could curse him later.

  You guys ready? I asked the others.

  ‘Bout as ready as we can be. Save the holy weapons for when he’s in here. If he comes in here.

  Sounded reasonable.

  “Well, Melvaren, time to prove if you’re worthy to stay among us!” bellowed the Lord of the City.

  A figure stepped in front of us on a box up above the edge of the fighting grounds. His figure was easily more than fifteen feet tall. He wore a small crown of gold atop his golden head with a weird sigil in it. His skin was as white as the winter snow, his smile showed sharpened teeth, and the gold of his eyes swam in a deep red.

  Rather than the leathery, bat-like wings the other demons had, his were made up of ebon feathers that looked to be singed but still moved easily.

  He wore a simple but elegant golden loincloth that hung low beneath his hips, the weighted front of it held by an ivory flask of some sort. He held out his hand and made a great show of grasping nothing with his left hand. The muscles in it bulged, and he moved his hand to place a struggling Melvaren before us.

  “Lest we forget, you were proven to be an intruder here, as has been deeply suspected in your rise amongst our ranks,” the Lord of the City’s lips didn’t move when he spoke, but his head did shift back. When it did, I thought I saw small, budding horns from just beneath the hairline and above the crown. The look of contempt in his features was plain for all to see, the joy he took in bringing this pretender low in front of all these demons and slaves.

  “Your power is that of a pretender, you insufferable offspring of an angel!” Melvaren spat. He turned to face us. “I will break you all, and in War’s infinite mercy, I will give you to him. Maybe he will allow you to help when it comes time to break your own world. Come!”

  He stomped closer, his level becoming apparent, and I gulped involuntarily.