The Devil's Banshee

by Donna Hosie

  “I don’t believe it,” said Magnus. “Mitchell Johnson has taken to death better than many with ten times his number of years in the Underworld. That shows ability to take orders and perform them without thinking, without second-guessing. He is being trained as a soldier by Lord Septimus. Mark my words.”

  “Soldiers do think,” said Elinor, pulling a moldy piece of bread from Magnus’s hair. “I know many soldiers in Hell. They think too much, if truth be told.”

  “Men are either leaders or followers,” I said.

  “And what about women?” replied Elinor testily. My father brother winced as the smell of burning hair wafted through Valhalla.

  “I was not slighting your sex,” I said quickly. “The Valkyries are as fearsome as any Viking. You would make a wonderful Valkyrie, Elinor.”

  My princess beamed. I had said the correct words.

  “I can follow orders, too,” she said. “I just need to know the reason for them.”

  “Even if you disagreed with the order?” asked Magnus. “Would you follow through then?”

  “The greater good is what matters in the end,” said Elinor. “Take yer hair, Magnus. I have followed yer orders and straightened it, even if I did think it was a bad idea. I thought we would burn down Hell, for a start. But look at the end result.” Elinor held up a mirror for Magnus. “Ye are looking fabulous for the Masquerade Ball tonight.”

  I could not contain my mirth. With his long, pointed face and his golden hair now straighter than the flat side of a knife, Father Brother Magnus looked like an Afghan hound. Mitchell picked an unfortunate moment to walk into the hall. He strode in, took one look at Magnus, burst out laughing and strode right out again.

  “You need to get your friend in line, Alfarin,” growled Magnus. “And I double my original offer of ten barrels of mead if you take my place tonight.”

  “Not a chance in Hell or Valhalla, Father Brother,” I replied. “I am a leader, not a soldier, and I do not follow orders or take bribes. Also, I have already suffered a Masquerade Ball. Third Cousin Magna is all yours tonight.”

  Magnus stormed off, cursing the Allfather at his predicament. Laughing, Elinor and I joined Mitchell in the dark corridor outside the Viking hall.

  “I would follow ye into battle, Alfarin,” said Elinor. “Ye know that, don’t ye?”

  “I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want,” I replied.

  “I’ll follow you, too, Alfarin,” replies Mitchell. “And not only because you know the directions to every place to eat in Hell with your eyes closed.”

  My friends did not realize how much their words meant to me. Could I already be a leader of men and women? Was I ready for that responsibility? Leadership was not just about orders. It also involved making hard decisions. Lord Septimus certainly thought so.

  Lately, the Roman general seemed to be turning up wherever I happened to be: Thomason’s, the library . . . why, he was even in the next toilet stall on level 666 one evening.

  I often found it difficult to do my business with harp music playing over the speakers, but trying to do it with the most powerful servant in Hell next to me was many times worse.

  “I heard you managed to get out of taking your sweet cousin Magna to the Masquerade Ball this year,” said Lord Septimus as he washed his hands.

  “I have done my duty in that regard once in the Afterlife,” I replied. “And that was quite enough.”

  “And what if your proposed partner had been Miss Powell?” asked Lord Septimus with a smile.

  “I would do anything Elinor asked of me, including dressing up like a penguin and dancing like one.”

  Lord Septimus smoothed his hands over his glistening black scalp and looked at me seriously.

  “And what if Miss Powell were to ask my intern to accompany her? The three of you have become very close.”

  “Then I would respect her decision . . . and incapacitate Mitchell a few hours beforehand,” I replied jokingly, although I was unsure where Lord Septimus was heading with this conversation.

  “Three is such an uneven number,” said Lord Septimus. “Four has always been my favorite.”

  “I would have thought six hundred and sixty-six was your favorite, Lord Septimus,” I replied. “I would certainly never allow The Devil to hear you favor any other.”

  Lord Septimus laughed. He had a great laugh. A warrior’s laugh: sonorous and true.

  “No, I suppose I ought to keep my fondness for the number four under wraps,” he said. Then he turned serious again. “A true friend will always have your back, Prince Alfarin,” he said. “Decisions involving the fate of friends are always the hardest ones of all.”

  “I was only joking,” I replied, thinking he was referring to my crack about incapacitating Mitchell. “I would never hurt my friend.”

  But Lord Septimus only grew graver. He placed his hands on my shoulders. He was several inches taller than I, and although I was far broader, there were few who could make me feel as small as Lord Septimus did in that moment.

  “You are a warrior, Prince Alfarin. As am I. And I have sacrificed men—friends—on the battlefield before. They haunt me in my nightmares and my existence in this Afterlife. One day you may have to decide whether to leave a friend behind. Think on this carefully. For I would rather have one true friend beside me in battle than ten who are only interested in saving their own skin.”

  “Lord Septimus, I really was only joking about incapacitating Mitchell.”

  “One last thing, Prince Alfarin,” replied the great Roman, ignoring my protestations. “You are a fine figure of a Viking, but it is easy for corporeal souls to get complacent in the Afterlife. Learn how to run. I see a lot of running in your future.”

  With a final pat on the shoulder, Lord Septimus left me in the toilets. Three other devils in open stalls stood openmouthed—one had actually pissed his pants—as The Devil’s right-hand man swept from level 666.

  “What was all that about?” asked the devil with the wet trousers.

  “I think Lord Septimus needs to find his sense of humor,” I replied. “Or I need to learn to tell better jokes.”

  And I also needed to learn how to run. Apparently.

  24. Following Orders

  When I come to in the darkness, the first emotion that registers is pain. A distinct stabbing pulse emanates from my head. My chest constricts and my throat tightens. I do not need to breathe, and there are many moments when I do not even register the instinct, but I do now, for it feels as if my entire upper body has been compressed by a heavy weight, and the desire to fill it with air is strong.

  “Medusa! Medusa . . . talk to me . . . please, say something . . . Virgil . . . help me . . . she’s not moving!”

  Mitchell’s cries are anguished, and my pain is eclipsed by a new sensation: fear.

  “Elinor, Mitchell, Medusa!” I cry. “Where are you? Call to me!”

  The darkness is impenetrable. A suffocating mass with no end and no beginning. I try to get a sense of myself. I know my body is bent; sloping, really. I am lying prostrate, but over something spherical. My arms and legs are draped over the rounded edges, as if I am a sacrificial offering. I must be on a boulder, yet my skin is unharmed.

  The wolves are still howling, but the sound is muffled. Something solid is now blocking the sickening, desperate noise from reaching us.

  “Elinor!” I cry. My throat and mouth are filled with dust and small rock particles. I choke and cough as I shout her name over and over again.

  But my princess does not reply.

  “Mitchell, where are you?” I shout.

  “Here, with Medusa, and Virgil . . . I think.”

  “Where is here?” Our voices are echoing around us in the darkness. I cannot tell which direction Mitchell’s is coming from.

  “I don’t know where I am, Alfarin!” shouts Mitchell. “I can see jack shit! I only know I’m with Medusa because of the hair.”

  “Virgil is with you, though?”
/>   “I think so!” shouts Mitchell; he breaks off to cough. The sound is so violent and phlegmy, I fear he is hacking up the lining of his useless lungs. “I can feel his robes. He’s moving a little now.”

  “Is Elinor with you?”

  “No, but she was near Virgil when the roof came down, so she’s probably—arrgghhhhh!”

  I have heard men scream before. It is a falsehood to believe they do not. Fear and pain and the understanding of impending death will reduce the voices of even the bravest of men to the most primal of sounds. It is that which is now expelling from my friend’s mouth. A base cry of fear that has been inherited through the ages. It is joined by howling that no longer sounds muffled. It is a solitary howl that speaks joy and pleasure at others’ pain.

  And I cannot help Mitchell, for I know not where he is in this crushing darkness.

  “Arrgghhhhh!”

  “Mitchell! Mitchell . . . what is it? Make another sound . . . I will come to you. . . .”

  But my friend falls silent, too.

  “Jeanne . . . Phlegyas . . .”

  “I am here, Viking,” groans a feeble French voice. It is weak, but close.

  I roll off the boulder and feel my left shoulder pop. Pain judders through my body again. A dislocation. I had many while I was alive, and several in death, too. Supporting my elbow with my other hand, I slam my dislocated arm into a rock and push upward and rotate at the same time. A hand grabs my calf as the welcome sensation of the ball joint slipping back into the shoulder socket warms my body.

  “Use the Viciseometer for light,” groans Jeanne. I realize it is her hand on my leg.

  I plunge my hand into my pocket and pull out the timepiece. The red circular face immediately lights up with miniature flames. I feel the heat spreading across my bloodied palm toward my wrist. The light is enough to illuminate the space around me.

  Jeanne is propped up in a sitting position. Blood is oozing from a cut above her eye, and a nasty flap of skin is hanging down from her brow.

  “I think the roof came down” is all she manages to say before she closes her eyes and leans her head back against the rock.

  “I know,” I gasp.

  Elinor . . . Mitchell . . . Medusa . . . I must find my friends. I hold the Viciseometer aloft like a torch and take in what is left of the Fourth Circle. It is a mass of brand-new rock from the roof of the cave, but there is movement from beneath the ground. Feet, shoulders and heads are starting to appear as tortured monsters crawl out of the dirt.

  “Viking, over here,” calls a voice. It is Phlegyas, and he is propping up Elinor. They do not appear to be hurt, just shocked.

  I pick up Jeanne and gently drape her over my undamaged shoulder. She offers no resistance and is as light as a roll of cloth.

  “We must find Mitchell and Medusa!” I cry. “He screamed out and then fell silent. The Unspeakables that were buried are starting to climb out of the ground. We must hurry.”

  “They were not buried,” calls Virgil. In the light of the Viciseometer I spot our guide. He stands up and falls back against a boulder. “The Fourth Circle is constantly remaking itself. When one Unspeakable falls, they all fall and are sucked into the ground, from which they must free themselves without the use of their bound hands. New rock boulders will drop from the cave roof, and this is what they must push.”

  “Cupidiar must have been bored with their efficiency,” says Phlegyas. “Either that or he wished to bring down the roof on us. He struck that Unspeakable with deliberate intent.”

  “Virgil, where is Mitchell?” I cry. “Where is Medusa?”

  “The girl is here,” calls Virgil. “I’ve just found her. She is not moving. I heard the boy calling to you earlier, but now he is silent and I cannot feel his presence in the air.”

  Elinor and Phlegyas tread a path toward me and Jeanne. The Maid of Orléans is moaning softly.

  “We need to find Mitchell!” cries Elinor, taking my face in her warm hands. “And then we need to get out of here. The Unspeakables are coming through the ground. I don’t want them near me. They are evil. I fear they might trigger another attack on my soul from The Devil.”

  “Viking, you must get moving. Come fetch the girl with snake hair from me and take everyone in that direction.” The blind guide points away to my right. “Stay together,” he orders. “If you need to use the new boulders for stability as you walk, you can touch them. They have not yet absorbed the toxicity of the Unspeakables. But they will not stay safe for long. Once the Unspeakables break through the surface and start to move, the rocks will be as dangerous and toxic as before. Go now! I will find the boy.”

  “He cannot find Mitchell!” cries Elinor. “He is blind, Alfarin. We have to stay!”

  But the bodies of the Unspeakables are progressing ever faster out of the ground.

  “Phlegyas, stay close to Elinor,” I say. “We will carry Medusa and Jeanne out of the Fourth Circle.”

  “What about Mitchell?” screams Elinor. “Ye cannot leave him.”

  I am trying to stay calm and collected. A Viking’s intuition is one of the strongest tools we have, and I know that Virgil is right. Also, I am a leader. And I must do what is right for the majority.

  My heart may not beat, but I know it works all the same . . . for I feel it breaking.

  We make our way to Virgil. His red robes are torn, and where the fabric is shredded, dark blood, so thick it looks like tar, is oozing over wrinkled skin. Medusa is lying by his feet. She could be sleeping.

  “I will find the boy,” says Virgil. “You must trust me. Head for the Third Circle. Cupidiar brought down his domain for a reason. With the peasant girl you have a Dreamcatcher to protect you from the Skin-Walkers, but once the Unspeakables start pushing the new rock, it will become too dangerous for you to move within this circle. You can see already that their stones are much larger than what they were pushing before. The smaller boulders you saw earlier were the result of their wearing the rock down. Go—now!”

  “I am not leaving without Mitchell,” sobs Elinor. “We have to find him.”

  “He is not here!” retorts Virgil angrily. “He has been taken. Only I can find him.”

  “The mission,” groans Jeanne. “We must not . . . deviate . . .”

  “Elinor, Phlegyas, carry Medusa out of this circle,” I say. “I will light the way with the Viciseometer and carry Jeanne. We will regroup in the tunnel between this circle and the Third.”

  “I am not leaving!” cries Elinor.

  “Yes, you are!” I shout back. “Phlegyas, pick up Medusa. Elinor, protect those of us remaining.”

  “Ye cannot order me around.”

  “Yes, I can!” I roar. “I am the leader of this quest and you will do as I command!”

  Elinor opens her mouth and closes it. Her beautiful red eyes are swimming with tears. My soul is splintering into a thousand pieces, and I know that because of what I am now telling her to do, Elinor will not help me put them back together.

  I grab Virgil’s robes in my anger, but my hold loosens as he places his gnarled fingers on either side of my face.

  “I am not what I appear, Viking,” he whispers. “I will find the boy. Do not wait for me. Go on to the Third. You will already know it is the circle where gluttony is punished.”

  A piercing howl shrieks through the cave once more, and I whip my head in its direction. Part of me begs to hear another scream from Mitchell, for then at least I would know he is here, but there is nothing.

  I turn back to Virgil.

  “Find my friend, I beg of you.”

  And I leave Mitchell behind.

  Tuttugu ok Fimm

  Alfarin and Mitchell

  “A boys’ night out” was how Mitchell described the evening of entertainment ahead of us. Elinor had agreed to sit out so Mitchell and I could partake in the male-only bonding rituals of our respective times. She had even volunteered for an extra shift at the housing department to take her mind off the fact that she would b
e bereft by my absence.

  At least that was what she told me as she skipped away with a beaming smile on her beautiful face.

  “This is exactly the kind of thing I would be doing if I were living,” said Mitchell as we wound our way through the mass of devils, all ambling about without any thought to their destination. “Birds, booze and something else beginning with b that will come to me.”

  “There are no such winged creatures in Hell,” I replied, confused as to why Mitchell’s evening of merriment would involve feathers.

  “Not that kind of bird, Alfarin,” said Mitchell. “Bird is an English word for chicks—girls.”

  “But you are American, my friend,” I said. I was starting to think Mitchell had been hit on the head by an overly large accounting book. He was making little sense.

  “I know!” exclaimed Mitchell. “I was trying to be . . . what’s that word? Elinor would know. Oh, alliterative. But it doesn’t matter. The point is, tonight we are going to be players in the field of love. I’m sick of being alone. I want a girlfriend.”

  And you will continue to be alone if you say you are a “player in the field of love,” I thought, but I kept my musings to myself. It was good to see Mitchell excited, and any female would be fortunate to win his heart. He was a fine example of manhood, if you discounted his weedy body, his inability to wield a weapon heavier than a pencil and his penchant for saying the letters W, T and F.

  Seeing as Mitchell was my closest male friend, I decided to embrace his enthusiasm and use of modern language. I slapped my arm around his shoulders, helped him up again when his knees buckled and said, “So, tonight I am your wingman?”

  “Yes!” hollered Mitchell. “That’s exactly it. You’re my wingman. Your job is to make the girls think I’m awesome.”

  “But you are awesome,” I said. “You can play music like Beethoven himself. You know how to cuss in five languages. I have seen you throw a grapefruit at a Saxon head from a distance most Vikings can only dream of and hit your mark. And you can place four hamburgers in your mouth at the same time. Mitchell, these are fine qualities that any woman would be quick to embrace. Now, look around. Which woman would you like me to approach about your awesomeness?”