by Joy Nash
“Hellfiends,” Merlin whispered. Fiends were minor demons created by the sinful passions of the souls of the damned. Their brains were tiny; their malice was great. The creatures, spawned in Hell, were rare on the Earth’s surface. In all his long life, Merlin had not encountered more than a handful of them. Never had he imagined so many in one place.
They skittered over the ground and launched their misshapen bodies into the air. Soon a mass of them had gathered under the ceiling of the cave, wings beating against the rock. Their shrieks pierced Merlin’s ears. The stench, brimstone and filth, closed his throat.
In the middle of it all, Nimue stood laughing. She turned to face him, swinging his staff around with her, scattering sprays of dark sparks like so much mud.
He stared. Her face, flushed with triumph, glowed. Her aura and power were blinding. He’d thought her a human witch of meager talent. He now realized she was more. Much, much more.
“What...what are you?” he whispered.
Her lips curled. “You remain blind, even now? Old fool. I am a Nephil. A daughter of Azazel.” Her head dropped back, her arms flung wide. She laughed. “And now I am queen of all the Earth, a demon horde at my command.”
She spun about, arms outstretched, his staff gripped in her left hand. A hellfiend alighted on her forearm, a second on her shoulder. By all the ancestors in Oblivion, what had he done? What horror had his blind lust wrought? The woman he’d thought was an innocent was, in truth, a Nephil adept. And worse, a spawn of Azazel, heiress to the alchemical magic of the most depraved of the fallen Watcher angels.
The hellfiends flew to Nimue like flies to rotten meat. They buzzed about her head, clung to her robe. Amid the hissing steam and beating wings, Merlin soon lost sight of her entirely. More and more fiends emerged from the depth to swarm with their terrible brethren. And from within the undulating mass, Nimue’s triumphant laughter rang out.
With a shout, she launched the fiends toward the cave’s ceiling, driven by a stream of hellfire. The horde obeyed her command, splattering their misshapen bodies against the rock, battering the barrier with their wings. As Merlin stumbled to his feet, fine fissures appeared in the stone overhead. Shards rained down on his head. This cave would not hold, he thought. Each fiend was small, but together, their power was formidable. Driven by Nimue’s magic, it was only a matter of time before they broke through to flood the human world.
There seemed no end to the invasion. With every beat of Merlin’s heart, scores of fiends emerged from the depth, joining the others in their grotesque dance about Nimue and the staff.
She had bested him. He, Merlin, the most powerful Nephil ever to walk the Earth. Proud Merlin, dedicated to the godly ideals of his human grandfather, who had been a priest of the Almighty. Merlin had thought himself capable of teaching and protecting his human brethren, of shepherding them safely past threats of war and destruction. He’d given his life to this cause. Was this to be his legacy? That humanity’s self-appointed shepherd would become the instrument of its doom?
Not while he had breath in his body. Merlin leaped into the fray. Slapping at demons right and left, he made slow progress through the horde. Nimue, in her frenzy, did not notice his approach until he was almost upon her. She spun about, trying to move the staff out of his reach. Too late. His hands were already upon the wood.
“No.” She yanked at the staff. Pewter hellfire shot from the orb down the length of the wood. Merlin’s hands burned, but he did not let go.
Their eyes locked. Their magic tangled and choked, Nimue’s hot fury battling Merlin’s cold anger. If he had not been able to take back the staff, he was not sure what might have happened. Perhaps Nimue would have prevailed.
But the staff, with its touchstone orb, had been fashioned by Merlin’s own hand. To Merlin, it owed its first allegiance. He sent his magic streaming through it, bright white against Nimue’s dirty gray. The surge struck like lightning, racing up the twisted wood and into the crystal where it spun with dizzying speed.
“Desist. You cannot prevail.”
“You fool,” she said. “My power is ten times yours. A hundred times.”
One look in her eyes told him she believed it. He, however, did not. A wave of sorrow passed over him as he gazed at her. “Good-bye, my love,” he said.
He closed his eyes and gave his fury full rein. A sound like a thunderclap echoed in his ears. The world behind his eyelids went white. When he opened his eyes it was to see Nimue’s body ablaze. She opened her mouth to scream. No sound emerged. He caught one final glimpse of her beautiful face, her eyes filled with shock, before the fire consumed her.
As her grip on the staff dissolved, he staggered backward. His beautiful lover was nothing more than ash. His own hand had sent her to Oblivion. The magic she’d wrought however, had not died with her. Hell’s fissure still gaped. The fiends still rose. How many now? Thousands, Merlin thought, with more arriving every second.
He lifted the staff, the crystal rising high over his head. This catastrophe was his fault. He must fix it. He blotted all but his magic and purpose from his mind. Hellfire crackled. Sparks flew through the air. Lashes of light, spun from his staff, wound and tangled in the hellfiends’ limbs. Slowly, slowly, like a spider binding her prey, Merlin wrapped the shrieking demons in his magic. Inch by slow inch, he pulled the mass of them down, down, down, forcing them back into the fissure from whence they’d emerged.
It was not until the last fiend had disappeared into the bowels of Hell and Merlin had driven the base of his staff into the stone after them, that he realized the portal opened by Nimue’s vision would never completely close. If he abandoned this place, the demon horde might very well emerge anew. If the human world was to be spared the horror of Merlin’s final mistake, he must pay for the error with his life.
NINETEEN
Merlin’s memories smashed into Arthur’s brain. The images and emotions took a bare second to absorb and a scant instant more to understand.
Raphael’s stunning blow had driven his blade into the heart of Merlin’s staff. Arthur, arms rigid, fought against the archangel’s advance. Behind Raphael’s head, a stream of blistering vapor shot toward the roof of the cave. Clouds of billowing steam spread right and left. Sparks streamed from Merlin’s touchstone to entwine with the mist in a glittering fog. Brimstone escaped from the deep burned his nostrils.
What have I done?
With a roar, he twisted the staff, shoving Raphael’s fiery blade to one side. Lurching past the angel, he tried to slam the staff back into the hole. It didn’t stick. High-pressure steam, spitting into the cave with the force of a fire hose, flung it back into his face.
A golden blur had him spinning to the left. Raphael hovered above him. His blade sliced downward, aimed for Arthur’s head. He barely threw himself out of the way in time. He hit the ground and rolled, sweeping the crystal head of the staff before him. The angel’s sword struck rock, spraying golden sparks.
Cybele. Dusek might have her out of the cave by now. He had to get to her...
A loud crack rent the air. The hole from which he’d pulled the staff broke open, fissures shooting in opposite directions. The island came apart, just as it had in Merlin’s memory. The rock under Arthur’s feet split. The portion of the island occupied by Raphael heaved upward. The angel pitched backward in a flurry of golden wings.
The fissure shot off into the water. More cracks opened, filling the cave with a sound like rapid rifle shot. The staff’s hole collapsed inward, leaving a treacherous network of crumbling rock. Hot sprays of steam spurted up from below, blasting from every new breach.
Arthur came up into a crouch on the shifting ground. He wanted to dash across the water, to go after Cybele. Raphael had different ideas. The archangel, having regained his equilibrium, swung his blade. Arthur deflected the worst of the blow with the staff. He spun off to avoid the next strike. With a downward sweep of his wings, he launched himself across the water.
Heat flash
ed through the air. The pool boiled and churned. Eddies formed in the dark water. With a massive sucking sound, liquid drained through the fissures, until the lakebed was nothing but dry stone, crumbling into nothingness.
Unholy screeching erupted from the fathomless deep. Hellfiends.
“Noooo!” Raphael’s cry echoed off the rock.
The archangel fell on Arthur, his fury as hot as the sulfurous steam filling the cave. Arthur whipped his wings around, rising into the air, dodging the blows. The vapor blasting from the ruined lakebed turned hotter. Sweat poured down his torso. His throat closed on the stink. At least the thick haze hindered Raphael’s aim. Unfortunately, it made it just as difficult for Arthur to anticipate the angel’s next attack.
He hovered above disintegrating rock, parrying each strike as best he could. White hellfire crackled inside the crystal touchstone. It raced along the wood, shot out in all directions. Arthur tried to direct the magic at his adversary, but in truth he had little control over it. Merlin’s staff seemed to have a mind of its own.
Demon shrieks filled his ears. Misshapen creatures, a match to those he’d seen in Merlin’s memory, climbed from the deep. Spindly limbs and horned heads attached to round, lumpy torsos were propelled by bat wings and whipping rattails. The fiends streamed past, flinging themselves against the cave’s ceiling.
Raphael looked about wildly. “Michael. Kill them!”
But the dark archangel Arthur had glimpsed only briefly was now nowhere to be seen. With a roar of frustration, Raphael spun and whipped his blade downward. Arthur absorbed the impact with the staff, holding the twisted rod above his head. Fragments of rock rained down. Worse and worse. The cave ceiling was crumbling before the onslaught of demon wings.
Raphael’s blade, embedded in the wood of the staff, resisted the angel’s efforts to yank it free. With a scowl, he reversed course, driving his strength forward. The fiery edge of his blade twisted into the meat of the oak, rowan, and yew. With a resounding crack, all three woods gave way.
Arthur fell back, wings flailing, a half-staff in each hand. Raphael dove after him. As his blade rose for the killing blow, another shower of stone rained down. A large rock struck the angel’s forearm. The sword’s downward arc shifted. The flat of the blade glanced off Arthur’s skull.
His head exploded in pain. More rock rained down. The entire cave, above and below, was disintegrating. The onslaught forced Raphael and Arthur apart. A large rock, striking Arthur’s chest, drove him downward. He struggled to beat his wings, to fight his way up through the plummeting debris. He raised an arm, the top half of Merlin’s staff clutched in his fist. The touchstone was dark. Stones tumbled, taking Arthur down in a furious avalanche. Rocks pummeled his body. One struck his forehead.
The world went black.
***
“Let. Me. Go.”
Cybele’s pockets were empty. Her touchstone was missing. She didn’t know where she’d lost it. She only knew that without it, she had no hope of casting an illusion or making herself fade from Dusek’s awareness. Abandoning the possibility of a magical defense, she grabbed her knife out of her boot.
Dusek merely snatched it away. “You won’t need this, my dear.” Her knife disappeared into a fold in his cape.
“Fuck you.” She fought with everything she had left, biting, scratching, kicking. She jabbed her elbow into his gut, slammed the heel of her boot into his knee. Dusek’s hellfire re-appeared. She cried out in pain as they lashed her arms to her torso.
His arm, clamped across her chest, kept her body melded to his. When she glanced down, at his hand, the face on the odd ring snapped its eyes open. Twin streams of dirty gold fire shot out, striking painfully on the underside of her chin. Cybele hissed in a breath. The ring grinned and winked at her then closed its eyes. A shudder of revulsion passed through her.
Dusek’s tongue licked around the shell of her ear. Cybele struggled, angling her head away from the disgusting sensation. His lips pursued her, whispering wetly. “Useless to struggle. I have you safe now. I don’t know how you managed to cast off my hellfire the first time, but rest assured, my sweet. It will not happen again.”
Her captor hauled her into a maze of rocky passages. Sulfurous mist followed in their wake. Cybele gagged. The ground shook. An ominous crack sounded. A network of fissures opened in the tunnel walls. Rock spalled and fell. Dear ancestors in Oblivion. Maybe Dusek wasn’t her first concern. She might die under an avalanche of stone long before the Alchemist dragged her into the light of day.
Arthur. He’d been battling the golden archangel when Dusek hauled her into the tunnel. She had to get back to the main cave, back to Arthur, before the hill above it collapsed. But Dusek’s grip was like iron.
And the rock below their feet was crumbling. Clouds of steam, tainted by the scent of brimstone, billowed up from below. Licks of flame snapped at their feet.
“It begins.” The Alchemist’s voice was triumphant. He backed to the edge of the passage, under an overhanging rock. Stone fell like rain outside the sheltered nook. His arm tightened, pressing Cybele’s spine snugly against his bare chest. A hard, round object pressed into her back between her shoulder blades. Dark, suffocating wings brushed her shoulders.
“Watch, my darling. Watch what I have wrought.”
Fire snapped and crackled. Misshapen, rat-tailed creatures, their membranous batwings whirring, rode the flames up from the deep. Reaching the level of the tunnel, some jumped off to roam about the passageway. Others continued upward. They gathered under the cave ceiling, battering the rock with their wings. The gauzy light of the celestial seal became visible amid the crumbling stone.
“Are they not glorious?”
Cybele swallowed. “What...what are they?”
“Hellfiend demons,” he said. “Creatures of pure malice, created by the vengeful souls of the eternally damned. The fiends have been prevented from passing into the upper world for centuries, blocked by the power of Merlin’s staff and Raphael’s seal. Now, at long last, they are free.”
Cybele’s mind raced. “You wanted this. You planned it. That’s why you lured Arthur to the cave.”
“You are no fool,” Dusek said. “I approve, my dear.”
“But...how could you have known what was behind the seal? And the staff?”
His tongue snaked into her ear. She felt his penis harden against her butt. She shivered with revulsion.
“I know because I have seen it,” he whispered. “In the memory of my ancestor.”
“Impossible. You aren’t of Merlin’s line.”
“That old fool? I would be ashamed to carry his blood in my veins. Have you not puzzled it out yet? Merlin died in this cave. And so did Nimue, at the Druid bastard’s hand. She is the one of whom I speak.”
Of course. Cybele had been blind not to see it. “Nimue wasn’t a witch. She was a Nephil.”
“A Nephil and Alchemist. A daughter of Azazel. She opened a path to Hell in this very cave. Her mistake was in not killing Merlin before the demons rose.”
He turned her to face him. A flash of reflected light caught Cybele’s gaze. An odd, swirling silver disc, swinging on a chain about the Alchemist’s neck. It looked soft and liquid, but it couldn’t be. Earlier, she’d felt the pendant digging into her back.
Dusek’s voice rising above the din of the shrieking hellfiends. “Merlin received his punishment. Trapped by his own guilt and by Raphael’s seal, he died a slow, despairing death. And all for naught. Today, Nimue’s vision is finally realized.” His arm swept the cave. “Are they not glorious creatures?”
They were hideous. Ugly and stinking, their shrieks were like hot needles poking through Cybele’s eardrums. Clouds of sulfur followed them, burning her throat with every breath. Dusek’s arm, pressing on her ribcage, didn’t help.
She felt him searching with his free hand in the red lining of his cape. He pulled an object from a hidden pocket. “Now,” he said, “I will see Nimue’s fiends launched into the worl
d.”
With a flick of his wrist, he released the object from his hand. A golden ball, held aloft by two glittering incandescent feathers. It hovered for a moment, swaying gently on its whirring wings. A wave of Dusek’s hand sent it darting off toward the cave ceiling.
The ball moved deftly, dodging fiends and falling stone. Cybele’s eyes followed the gleaming gold as it flitted through the yellow murk, climbing ever higher. Spinning through a gap in the stone, it plunged into the golden gauze of the celestial seal.
For a moment, Cybele thought Raphael’s barrier would hold. Then a fine network of spidering cracks appeared, spreading darkly from the point of the winged ball’s impact. Chunks of golden light began to fall, revealing the night sky behind.
“Yes.” Dusek’s cry was triumphant. “Yes.” He started out of the niche, shoving Cybele before him. As his wings lifted, an angry rumble shook the ground.
The cave floor heaved. Dusek lost his balance. Cybele didn’t miss her chance. She let her body go limp, causing her captor to pitch forward at the unexpected shift of her weight. She twisted to one side and, arms still pinned by the hellfire lashes, slammed her head up into his jaw.
His head whipped to one side. His body half-turned with it. The silver disc about his neck swung sideways on its chain, striking the cave wall. A jagged line appeared down the center. The silvery liquid trembled and separated. The broken halves coalesced into two smaller, perfect circles.
One disc remained attached to the chain. The other fell to the cave floor. A sphere of brilliant light bounced out of it, spinning sharply upward. With a loud pop! the light became a baby—a chubby baby with wings and a slightly tarnished gold ring wobbling wildly above its head. Cybele stared at it in amazement.
“Wheeeeee!” the infant cried. Iridescent feathers whirred. Feathers, Cybele realized, that matched those on the golden ball that had broken the celestial seal. White swaddling clothes, quickly unraveling from the baby’s chubby form, streamed free.