by Ryan Attard
The ground came up to meet me at a rate that would have pulverized anything. Instead, I landed in a typical superhero pose, half-crouched, as my wings dissolved and shadows coiled around me.
I saw boots of black metal forming around my legs—the Knightmare’s armor. I willed it away, struggling internally to remove all traces of the Sin of Wrath from inside me. I had to retain control.
So maybe don’t go all adrenaline-junkie, huh, Erik?
I exhaled and extracted Djinn, reveling in its familiar blue light.
My landing had created a small crater, barely two feet deep, but the shockwave sent people flying as if a bomb had gone off.
Silence fell.
Beside me, Berphomet fell like a hairy raindrop, his goat legs steady and powerful. Kulshedra landed on a building, caving it in, and coiled over herself. Lhorax actually went through a church of some kind and came out rolling like a gorilla from the front door as the building crumbled and collapsed behind him.
Only Paimon landed gracefully, carried by three separate Asmodaii who had sprouted chiropteran wings from their backs. The other Asmodaii dropped like bombs in a WWII movie, and the sky was suddenly spotted by a rain of free-falling demonic shock troops.
Paimon blew his trumpet and the crowd screamed in unison. All around me people stampeded, trampling over the fallen and the weak. At the same time, the Asmodaii spread out and did what shock troops did best: slaughter and butcher.
I kept my eyes steady on the castle.
“Spread out,” I told the demons over my shoulder. “You know what to do. Disperse and destroy.”
Chapter 28
My first step towards the castle was slow, and steady, deliberate and full of cold emotion.
Anger is an emotion with two faces. The first is fiery, when rage boils from within and comes out in a torrent. Throughout this explosion of emotion we speak and act in ways that can only be described as bestial or animalistic. That type of fire and fury is common, easy to come and quick to fade.
But it was the second face of anger that got you. The cold front, the heart rendered frigid once all the fire died down. You felt angry at the world, hating everyone and everything, wishing above all else that something else got broken, just so you could point at and identify something as broken as yourself. This cold wrath ran deep. It warped your brain and became part of your every thought. It populated the dark and lonely pockets of time with its frigidness. It was the kind of wrath that turned your soul into ice, and only the most powerful acts of hope and love could thaw it out.
I had no such acts in mind. I embraced the wrath, knowing it had given me strength in the past, and would do so again. Part of me realized how ironic that was. I had been given the Sin of Wrath, having become the perfect receptacle for it.
It angered me to have it, but I feared its absence too. I had come to rely on my anger for so long, that I knew little about alternative paths.
Wanton destruction mercifully distracted me from my thoughts.
As soon as I gave the order, the four demons I had brought with me to Castello del Relampago spread out. Berphomet leapt towards the tallest building he could find, pulling off a ninja act and disappearing. There was absolutely no sign of him but I wasn’t naive enough to think he wasn’t watching my every move.
The others were less subtle. Kulshedra screeched something incoherent—not that she usually made all that much sense with all her hisses and lisps—and shook a thousand serpents from her body, while she slammed into a building like a freight train.
Paimon and his brood went south. The screams of the dead pierced the night, a symphony of magic spells, rabid beasts, short brutal struggles, and ultimately death.
Lhorax took the award for most cliché. As I began walking up the winding road to the castle, I spotted him leaping from building to building in some sort of King Kong meets Quasimodo impression, swinging his giant war hammer around, and basically destroying things with the glee of a child toppling a set of Legos.
It was all going according to plan.
Hopefully by now my sister would have gotten the message and followed my trail, so she could help contain the demons I had ushered into our world. (Although I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over any death or destruction that occurred here, at the Black Ring Society’s headquarters and Greede’s main sanctuary.)
In case she hadn’t, Berphomet had been paid enough to help them out. It didn’t take much to convince the demon. Turns out it was also in his best interest if Hell’s denizens stayed away from his main hunting ground. Something about not bringing your deranged family to your place of business.
He had also pointed out several weaknesses that the other demons had. Paimon’s reliance on his trumpet and allies, Kulshedra’s vulnerability to fire, Lhorax’s simplicity and reliance on heavy direct attacks, often leaving his flank (particularly his right side just before he struck) wide open for a few tranqs—or a kill shot—to put him down.
Professional that he was though, Berphomet neglected to provide his own weaknesses. Though I guess we’d already established the goat boy was open to bribery.
All that was left now was for me to confront Greede and remove the Sin from within me. Something better in theory than in practice.
I could feel the power inside me roil with every step I took towards the castle. Black armor covered me in waves, first forming, then receding, as I fought against the Sin’s influence. Only Djinn glowed azure and bright, a beacon of who I really was.
The first manticore emerged from the shadows, followed by a dozen more. Men in hooded robes raced up to me, some clad in armor, others wielding staves and swords, all glowing.
I stopped. So did they. Cold rage built within me. The closest manticore started growling. It retreated a fraction of an inch. A grin spread on my face. I didn’t say anything.
I just swung Djinn and unleashed the magic inside it.
Fighting hinges on instincts that lie between bestial and human. My memory of that fight came in flashes, of guts raining down, of my foot slipping on blood, and the sensation of bones and flesh breaking beneath my limbs and my sword.
The manticores were the quickest, but the most vulnerable to Djinn’s blasts. When they got close, I held all the magic inside the blade, waving it around like a lightsaber and making short work of anything dumb enough to approach me. The armored wizards were more of a challenge—but only slightly.
But they got wise and backed away. A barrier blocked my path. I started hitting it with everything I had, my frustration feeding the anger, which in turn fed the Sin.
And I had no idea it was happening.
I only realized when Djinn turned black and long, becoming the Knightmare’s broadsword.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
A voice I hadn’t heard in decades, not since I had first confronted it when I was just a child. Not since I pulled out the shortsword from my mother’s coffin.
Djinn’s voice wailed again in my subconscious, a voice that cut through all of the white noise.
This is not the way. This is not my path. You are no longer worthy.
That voice cut colder than all of the rage. I felt something tug in my right hand, and then a flash of pain I did my best to avoid. The kind of pain that was unique to me, pain that I only experienced when I tried to use magic without a channel. The pain of my curse.
And Djinn was using that against me.
“Screw you,” I heard myself roar. “I need power.”
More pain.
In a fit of rage I tossed the sword away. It flared azure and hung in mid-air, suspended phantasmagorically for a second, as if observing me.
Then, Djinn, my constant battle companion, the one thing I’d always been able to rely upon, flew off, abandoning its master.
It impaled itself to the topmost part of a watchtower on the other side of town. A beam of azure light shot towards the sky, right beneath the rift which opened to this dimension.
I growled.
Fine
. I don’t need you. I’ll use whatever I can.
I never saw myself pick up a fallen sword, but it was suddenly covered in shadows and black metal, and the Knightmare’s massive broadsword was surprisingly light to wield. His gauntlets formed on my hands as well, covering me all the way up to the elbows. Spikes jutted out from the knuckles and along the outer part of the forearms, like Batman’s fins.
I swung. The barrier had no chance. My frenzy doubled and when I calmed down again, I was facing the doors of the castle and was in the process of blasting them in.
***
The castle was empty.
I extended my magic sense and found only two creatures inside.
One, inside something resembling a throne room, was Greede.
The other creature had a massive aura, dangerous and primal. Less human and more animal, as if it was some kind of animated beast, or a familiar of some kind. It prowled an antechamber leading to the throne room, with a surprising amount of calm. Usually animals got tense when someone invaded their territory.
This one was calm, accepting the invasion and whatever consequences arose from the confrontation.
I made my way along the corridors and caught my reflection in one of the mirrors. I stopped.
The Knightmare's reflection looked back at me. I touched my face, expecting to feel the rough metal of the helmet. But I was human, and yet the mirror was showing me the opposite.
I shook my head. I didn’t have time for these mind games.
The antechamber loomed in front of me. I considered kicking the door in but instead merely pushed.
The door wasn’t locked, or even fully closed. I walked inside and was greeted by the largest man I had ever seen.
Standing at just shy of eight feet, he was a Greek god of a man, made out of pure chiseled muscle and sinew, hands the size of catcher’s mitts and shoulders wide enough to fit two of me side by side. His dusky black skin reflected the moonlight, bare, save for a loincloth covering his indecency. A small mercy, I suppose, because if everything was in proportion, it would have likely depressed me and every other man on the planet.
The man tilted his head respectfully towards me.
“Erik Ashendale,” he said in a thick African accent. More than that, I detected some Cajun in there as well.
“You know who I am?” I asked.
“I do.”
“Greede told you,” I said. “Step aside. I have business with him.”
I took a step. The giant man smiled serenely.
“I know who you are, yes,” he said, “but not because Master Greede informed me. He had no need. I can smell your father’s noble blood in you, even beneath all the enchantment.”
That made me stop in my tracks.
“My father?” I asked. “What does my father have to do with this? Who are you?”
“My name is Ubatu,” he replied. “I was once saved by your father, the most noble man I ever met, and as a result of that single act of kindness I bound myself to his service.”
“You must have caught him on a good day,” I shot back.
Ubatu nodded. “Perhaps.”
“Step aside, Ubatu, or whatever you’re called,” I said. “I will not warn you again.”
“And for the sake of your father,” Ubatu said, “I will not go easy on his progeny. I shall honor him in that way.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
The big man shook his head.
“The time for talking is over, Erik Ashendale. Please prepare yourself.”
Ubatu’s form shuddered under the moonlight, and he began transforming.
Chapter 29
Ubatu’s already-oversized body swelled beneath the moonlight beaming through the window of the antechamber.
I’ve dealt with werewolves before and thought that dealing with one meant I’ve dealt with all of them. Magically speaking, the lycanthropy curse was basic stuff: think of it as a timed virus, only coming out when the body is directly under the moonlight. Usually the curse took thirty days to regenerate itself, with one of the requirements being the host needing to absorb moonlight—or rather the ambient magic energy that only came out at night, since there are different magical frequencies during day and night.
Werewolves were not the greatest in terms of power. Sure they can tear you to shreds but there are scarier things out there that can rip you apart more effectively. They can bite but there’s always something with bigger teeth. Even the mutated alpha I had dealt with early in my career was just an overgrown beast.
Ubatu was all that, and so much more.
For one thing, his transformation was graceful, as easy as you or I taking off a jacket or a shirt, instead of shedding out human DNA and replacing it. Like rivulets of water cascading down his body, short matte dark hair covered his body, while his muscular body elongated. Human muscle structure is meant to hold us upright. A wolf’s is longer and meant for speed, not strength. Ubatu’s arms, however, did not lose their mass, only grew longer, adding more springing power.
His knees popped, the kneecaps inverting and reversing the joint. Thick claws popped from his toes, matching the ones at the end of each fingertip. Thick, curved, and black as night.
His face jutted forwards and a lupine snout flared its nostrils, exhaling a puff of smoke. His eyes were silver, the color of polished metal, and in the gloom, I recognized the telltale signs of eyeshine, meaning that while I struggled to see in the dark room, Ubatu could spot every last pore on my face.
Ubatu’s mass meant he was slightly hunched forward, all ten feet of him.
“Good doggy,” I said. Without meaning to my hands were up in a guard and I was backing away.
Ubatu growled. “That is not a very nice thing to say.”
I cocked my head. “Holy shit, you talk? I thought wolves lost their speech in wolf form.”
Another growl. “The little mutts do. But I am over four-hundred years old and have thus outgrown my limitations.”
There was a whipping sound and Ubatu disappeared for a split second. I felt him behind me more than I saw him, and then definitely felt his swipe. I cried out and ducked at the last second. He caught my shoulder and popped it out. The wall greeted me and a crack later I was seeing stars.
I gasped, opened my mouth to spout out some dumb comment, and then Ubatu’s shadow was over me. I raised my broadsword, the black blade acting as a shield and stopping his claws from tearing my face off. I kicked off the wall, pushing into his flank. The spikes on my gauntlets tore at his side, leaving a series of shallow cuts that pissed him off more than damaged him.
Ubatu lashed with a back kick, catching my other shoulder. Bits of black armor and living shadows were torn off. The black broadsword was sent sailing, dissolving into nothing as it flew off my grip. Blood — my blood — dripped onto the floor, flesh hanging in ribbons.
Pain radiated, dulled by rage. At the back of my mind I felt my aches being healed and saw shadows knit my flesh back together, sometimes twisting to pack themselves as my new muscles.
My armor reformed and now I felt something different about myself. A coldness washed over me, touching my skin. I could almost feel it as smooth and rough at the same time, blunt and sharp. Metal on my face. Metal on my limbs. Metal holding my body together.
Metal made from shadows fueled by my wrath.
I became the living embodiment of the Sin of Wrath, the Knightmare.
A broadsword formed in my hands, almost as tall as I was, and wider than both my forearms. It weighed next to nothing, but packed a punch.
As Ubatu discovered.
I tore at his side. His right leg flew off, while he stared in horror. Warrior that he was, he rolled under the next strike meant for his neck, and snatched his fallen limb from the ground, pressing it against the stump.
Through the helm on my head I saw magic in its rawest from, primordial energy knitting his flesh back together.
Ubatu was now on my back, claws ripping through the armor and digg
ing for the flesh inside. His huffs and growls echoed in my ears as if he were inches away. His hot breath was enough to scald my flesh.
I reversed the grip on my sword and slid it behind my back, levering him off me. With my free arm I shot an elbow backwards. His snout crunched and squelched. I grabbed his head and pulled, tearing the beast off me. My body felt heavy and solid, like the roots of a tree, as I executed a throw that sent him over my shoulder. He spun and absorbed the sword strike, blocking it with his hands. Blood seeped from where the blade made contact. I pressed, digging deeper.
Hating him.
Kill him. Tear him apart.
Ubatu lashed out with his leg, but I saw it coming. I raised my knee, blocking the kick with my shin. The spikes along the greaves tore at his flesh. Ubatu howled.
I liked it. I liked watching him hurt.
I stomped on his leg. A sickening crunch told me it was broken. I had to make sure, so I stomped on it again.
And again.
Ubatu screamed. His claws struck at me, thinking I would not use my sword at such close range. Bits of my armor flew and my blood splattered over him.
It fed my rage.
And when I wielded a sword, given my history, my pattern of attack, my training, all that rage went to one place.
Dark, foul, deadly energy swirled around the broadsword, unleashed in a beam that Ubatu took at point blank. The blast blinded me and I was sent flying backwards.
The wall broke my flight and flaked all around me, mortar raining down on my armor.
When the smoke cleared I saw what was left of Ubatu, his entire left side torn off, arm and leg vaporized. Half his face was sheared off, exposing sinew and teeth and a gaping eyeball. It was blood-red now, and dulled. His right leg was crushed from when I had stomped on it.
He was on the ground, his good hand reaching out towards me.
The fur rescinded. The snout disappeared, squelching blood as his body morphed one last time. Claws retreated and a human hand reached out to me. Ubatu looked at me with one good eye.