by James Hunter
No one spoke to me as I headed over to the racks.
Armor came first.
I spotted a couple of metal breastplates riddled with puncture marks and rusty enough to make tetanus a genuine concern. Worse, they were bulky. Yeah, pass. I kept right on looking until I found a brown leather cuirass covered with brass rivets and straps. The armor was old, the leather cracked and worn in places, but serviceable, light, and relatively flexible. Good for movement. It wouldn’t provide me the protection a full plate of metal would, but it was a helluva lot better than fighting shirtless.
The copious bloodstains were a bit worrisome, though.
I slipped it over my head, wriggling it into place, then adjusting and readjusting the straps until everything was more or less where it was supposed to be.
Next came a helmet, the most important bit since Asmodeus knew my face even if most Hellions didn’t. There wasn’t a lot of selection, but you know what they say: prisoners forced to fight against their will in an Infernal colosseum can’t be choosers. Or something along those lines. I snagged a dented Viking-style helmet with curling ram’s horns. It was trimmed with gray fur and had a leather faceplate concealing the eyes and nose. It was about the most I could hope for. I slipped it on, feeling relieved that it fit okay, and buckled on the thin chin strap.
Last came weapons.
The assholes on the bench had already taken all the good stuff, but partially buried beneath a score of rusted-out halberds and morning stars, which looked one hit away from disintegrating into dust, was a sword. Nothing fancy. Not a katana, and certainly not a rune-etched blade of badassery, but something that would do the job. A Roman gladius with a grimy blade and a wooden handle. I picked it up, gave a few practice swings—which earned me some dirty looks from my fellow inmates—then nodded.
I headed over to an empty spot on the bench, but just as I turned to sit, the metal gate screeched open again, admitting fifteen guards all carrying sawed-off shotties and riot shields. They weren’t taking any chances here. “On your feet, dick-whores,” the lanky guard who’d escorted me in bellowed. “And don’t even think about tryin’ anything funny. I won’t hesitate, not for a second, to fill you full of shotgun slugs before tossing your sorry asses into the games.”
The rest of the prisoners—quiet, brooding, faces downcast in utter defeat—stood and moved to the ramp, lining up in two columns. Almost as though they’d seen this show before, though probably from the stands instead of inside this shitty, dank little room. I dropped my head too, not wanting to start my day off with a belly full of buckshot, and followed along, taking a spot at the end of the right-hand column. I gripped my battered gladius in a white-knuckled hand as the giant iron gate portcullis at the end of the ramp lurched up and green light flooded in.
“Move!” the guards commanded.
Up we went, climbing the sloping ramp into the nightmare colosseum, where most of us would likely die.
A cacophony of sound hit me in the face as we emerged into the dusty sands. The stands were packed full of Hellions, and all of them seemed to be on their feet, arms waving frantically in the air as they chanted and screamed, all of them eager for death and bloodshed despite the fact that Hell seemed to be nothing but death and bloodshed. You’d think these people would want something else, a reprieve from their shitty lives.
But no.
They just wanted to see someone else do the suffering for a little while.
A short vacation from their own misery.
I scanned the faces in the crowd. The upper echelons of the stadium were almost impossible to see clearly from the arena floor, but that was where all the regular, Joe-Blow Hellions were. If everything was going according to plan, that’s also where Heckabe should be—standing by with a remote detonator.
The seats closer in, however, were another story entirely.
Not only could I see the spectators, but it was painfully clear there was nothing average about ’em. The lower levels were filled with demons of all kinds, accompanied by their entourages. Some of them were beautiful—almost angelic—with flawless skin, gorgeous white wings, and flowing togas. Others, not so much: Hulking creatures with bat wings and too many teeth. Spindly monsters covered in swollen red eyes. Fur. Fangs. Scales. Claws. Everything in between.
Unfortunately, the Imperial Podium was painfully empty.
Asmodeus wasn’t here, and that meant I’d need to weather whatever shenanigans they had in store for me until he arrived.
Great.
The gate crashed down behind us with an echoing boom, kicking up a cloud of dust as we headed into the center of the giant ring. I ripped my gaze away from the morbid spectators and glanced up at the sky overhead. Though this was almost a mirror copy of the colosseum I’d seen in Azazel’s portion of my brainscape, there was one significant difference. Directly above me was a giant jade column of light, swirling slowly like a giant twister. Standing here, bathed in its glow, I could feel its gentle pull against my body.
I was standing at the mouth of the gateway outta this place.
This was it. This was everything. Now all I needed to do was survive long enough to kill Asmodeus, jack his key, collect Levi, and get outta Dodge.
“Welcome to the two thousand twenty-seventh annual Flesh Reckoning,” a voice boomed out over the crowd, amplified by a construct of pure Nox. The speaker was a woman, short and curvy, and perfect in every regard. Except she didn’t have a face. Yep, definitely no face. Where her features should’ve been was an empty black void, as though someone had taken a giant ice-cream scoop to her head.
“The Reckoning is a time to celebrate,” she said, despite not having a mouth. “A time to feast! To fight! To fuck! A time to revel in the pleasures and pain of the Flesh. To indulge in the greatest Spectacle of Flesh in all Nine Hells!” The crowd boomed in thunderous applause. “Please welcome our first wave of cannon fodder, brought here for your amusement.” She swept a hand toward my group. “A warm-up to whet the appetite of our hungry sands and ravenous fans.”
More applause, fierce and sharp.
“Yet,” she said, raising slender arms high, radiating dark power into the air, which instantly quieted the crowd to a low mummer. I didn’t know who this lady was, but damn did she scare the bejesus outta me. “Yet,” she said again, “let it never be said His Lordship Asmodeus does not appreciate the strength of the conqueror. You worthless things”—she intoned, turning her empty face on my fellow prisoners and me—“fight hard. Survive. Prove your fitness to live, and in doing so, earn a pardon.
“If you have the resolve and prowess to endure our illustrious competition, you’ll be exiled from Pandæmonium, but allowed to live out your days on one of the other levels of the Great Inferno. But fail …” She paused, letting the words linger in the air like a question. “And the Bone Collector waits below to harvest your pitiful bodies and enslave your souls into the stones of the Nekropolis.” Frantic, wild cheering went up this time, the clapping of hands as loud as a thunderstorm. “And now, without further ado, let the games begin!”
Across from us, a steel portcullis lurched up with a shriek, but instead of discharging more pitiful prisoners, a deafening bellow rang out. The ground vibrated and trembled as monsters exploded from a connecting ramp and onto the sands. “Hailing from the Dark Wood on the edge of the First Circle,” the announcer said, “welcome the Hetmalisko!”
For a second, my mind reeled, unsure what I was seeing, or what I was supposed to do. These creatures—two of them, each the size of a semi—were equal parts T. rex and houseplant. Seriously. Towering reptilian creatures built entirely of rotten leaves, twisting vines, dense bark, and wicked thorns. Friggin’ Tree-Rexes is what they were. Shit. And holy crap were they mad as hell. They charged our group, giant claws tearing great ruts in the earth, their maws stretched wide.
Yay for my life.
THIRTY-THREE:
Tree-Rexes
The prisoners around me broke like fine china, scatte
ring in every direction. Some screamed for mercy, darting toward the towering arena walls as if salvation might be found there. Others retreated, not so much running toward anything, but rather running away from the creatures. Running, however, didn’t work so well because these things were fast. Giant feet ate up the distance, and in seconds the first Twig-Dino was looming over a portly Hellion in chainmail. The man turned on a heel, raising a pike as the last line of defense, which did absolutely nothing.
The creature batted the puny weapon aside and shot in with its massive jaws thrown wide. The prisoner shrieked as the jaws smashed closed, severing the Hellion in two, his upper half vanishing down the creature’s throat, the other half flopping to the sands.
Check. Plants or not, these things were killing machines.
Killing these things without fancy constructs was gonna be next to impossible on my own. To survive, my fellow prisoners and I would need to work together. Thankfully, a few of the other inmates realized the same thing. A tight pocket of resistance, four strong, formed up in the middle of the pit, their weapons drawn and at the ready. I bolted toward them without a second thought: they were my best chance of surviving this shitstorm. I slid to a stop and heard the bone-shaking roar of one of the creatures behind me.
I wheeled around, eyes wide, sword raised, bracing myself for an attack.
But the creature was fifteen feet away, harassing another prisoner—a scrawny woman in ill-fitting plate mail with a mace. She took a sloppy swing, but the Tree-Rex caught her arm in its tremendous jaws. I winced, fully expecting the limb to come away in a spurt of blood. But no. The creature flicked its head straight up, launching the woman like a rocket into the air. She seemed to float for a long moment, but then her body arched, and back down she came like a stone. The creature was waiting directly below, its face turned upward, its mouth wide and ready.
It was like watching a late-night drunk toss Cheetos to himself at the bar—except, you know, people, not Cheetos.
She vanished down the Vine-osaurs’ throat in a single gulp, and before the man-eater even had a chance to digest the meal, the creature was moving on, running down another victim, alone and woefully ill-prepared for the fight. I looked away, turning back to the second monster, quickly closing in on my group. “Brace yourselves,” a hulking ogre with blister-red skin shouted. The ogre planted his feet and turned his shoulders into the oncoming creature, raising a thick square shield into position.
Because physics matter, I knew exactly how that match-up was gonna go.
“On three, everyone needs to scatter and go for the legs,” I yelled. “If we hobble this thing, we have a chance to win.” The ogre on point shot me a nastygram over one shoulder, but I ignored the look—it was already too late for him, he never stood a chance. The creature lowered its thick head and used its snout as a battering ram, slamming into the shield and flinging the poor ogre halfway across the arena like a punted football.
I was already moving, diving to the right, avoiding a smashing foot by inches. I wasn’t lucky enough to avoid a wicked barb on its lashing tail, however. A line of fire exploded along the sole of my left foot as I rolled, and by the time I was upright, a small puddle of blood was already soaking into the sand beneath me. I ignored the pain, though. The Tree-Rex was busy digging into the guts of a man with goat horns, and I had a mostly clear shot at one of its legs.
Even better, another fighter—a beefcake black woman who vaguely reminded me of Ma Rainey—had taken my advice. She caught my eye and nodded, shooting in with a heavy double-bladed axe in her hands. I followed suit, bolting forward as I slashed at a thick clump of vines acting as ligament tissue between the upper and lower portion of the leg. The gladius, though rusty, pitted, and built for stabbing, had a damned good edge to it.
I sliced through a thick section of vegetation; hopefully a crippling blow. At the same time, the Hellion woman opposite me carved through most of the other leg in a single powerhouse chop. That leg, now held together only by a thin clump of vines, bowed under the weight of the monster. The Tree-Rex pitched forward, its massive jaws slamming into the ground in a spray of debris. Even down, though, it was still a force of nature, pulling itself along with its gimpy arms and its broken leg, jaws closing around another Hellion.
Not on my watch. “Go for the neck!” I roared at the woman while bounding forward. In four quick steps, I was next to the creature’s impressive snout. The man in its jaws was desperately trying to pull himself free, panic etched into the lines of his face as he clawed at the dirt and kicked at the creature’s nose with his free foot. But his other leg was lodged just below the kneecap, and the Killer Plant didn’t seem to have any intention of letting go.
It was time to change that.
With a snarl, I thrust the blade into one of the creature’s burning red eyes, driving it all the way to the wooden guard. On reflex the Tree-Rex's mouth popped open, letting out an ear-splitting roar, one part pain, one part fury, as it thrashed its head back and forth. The man wasted no time, pulling himself out of range, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Miraculously, his leg was still intact, though peppered with thick teeth wounds that almost resembled the bite of a great white.
If a great white was three times bigger.
The creature thrashed again, bucking wildly, but only for a second. A giant axe blade screamed through the air, sinking into its thick neck. The Tree-Rex was far too large to decapitate with a single blow, but whatever the axe hit was vital. The monster’s whole body seized up before exploding into a fit of violent spasms, sea-green foam oozing from beneath its teeth.
It fell still a moment later, the body seeming to deflate and melt away in double time: vines sagged and withered, leaves died, curling into blackened husks, and thorny barbs disintegrated before my eyes. I pulled my sword free, not wanting to lose the blade to the supernatural decay, and backpedaled. Once the creature was little more than a sludgy pile of green and brown, I wheeled right, preparing to take out the second Vine-osaur.
But much to my surprise, the other creature was down too, its legs hacked out from beneath it, while a trio of prisoners stabbed the shit out of it with swords and spears. It was still alive, but not for much longer. There were some survivors in this group—though only some. Of the twenty or so Hellions that’d marched into this nightmare, only eight of us remained. The attrition rate wasn’t so hot, especially considering this was only the first round.
The easy round.
And if this was the warm-up act, what did these sadistic pricks have in store for the finale? I didn’t want to know and prayed I wouldn’t have to find out.
The crowd let out a cheer as the second Tree-Rex finally expired, melting into a mess best taken care of with a mop and a bucket—a very large mop, and a very large bucket.
“Now that,” roared the female announcer, “is exactly the kind of fighting and showmanship we are looking for. Let’s give our spirited combatants a hearty round of applause.” The crowd was more than happy to oblige her, their cheers sounding like a hailstorm pounding against a tin roof. “And now that everyone is thoroughly warmed up and ready for the real show to begin, let us all stand for our great benefactor, and the King of Pandæmonium, Asmodeus!”
Somehow—almost impossibly—the crowd went even crazier, screaming at the top of their lungs, pumping fists in the air, and stomping feet or cloven hooves against black stone. I turned toward the Imperial Podium as a creature slithered onto the platform; the bottom dropped out of my stomach. I’d seen a lot of demons so far during my time in Hell, but I hadn’t seen anything quite like Asmodeus.
He was at least twenty feet tall—his skin a mottled, pasty white—and he crept forward on an army of fat squid tentacles. He had four arms each, like obese, dangling pythons, which nearly dragged on the floor as he moved. His face was flat and somehow reptilian, accentuated by a missing nose, the narrow eyes of a viper, and a flickering black tongue, which reminded me of the Flesh Eaters. Limp, fleshy wings protruded from h
is back, but just one look told me this creature wasn’t built to fly.
Maybe once upon a time, but no longer.
Asmodeus didn’t wear clothes, which was plenty disturbing, but he did wear plenty of jewels. A silver crown, bedazzled with shining gems, adorned his head, and thick rings festooned each finger, studded with diamonds and rough-cut blood rubies. He was subtle, Asmodeus—a very down-to-earth guy who valued the simple things in life. The real prize, though, hung on a thick iron chain around his neck: a silver, circular medallion, the size of my closed fist, pulsing with green light. The key to the gates of Hell.
There were only nine of those bad boys—one held by the ruler of each level of the Pit—and with that in hand, I could blow this popsicle stand for good.
My eyes widened slightly as a pair of Flesh Eaters made their way onto the podium with old Asmodeus, flanking the demon lord on either side as they scanned the crowd. One of them was none other than the assface with the bright pink liberty spikes from the saloon. Man, was that guy gonna get it if I had a say in how things went down.
“Now that our Lord has come,” the announcer boomed, “let’s kick off the second round. Open the gates!” As she spoke, a host of metal portcullises shot open around the colosseum, ready to spew new horrors into the arena for us stalwart prisoners to battle …
Except, nothing came out. No new fighters. No new animals. A whole lot of nothing. The prisoners around me turned hesitantly, trying to watch every gate at once. Meanwhile, the crowd grew restless, and the demonic movers and shakers in the first several rows shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Asmodeus just looked pissed.