Hellgate London: Goetia

by Mel Odom

  Warren used his human hand to feel for the void beyond the wall. When he found it, he concentrated again and felt for the spaces between the atoms of the chemicals that made up the concrete and wood that sealed the tunnel off.

  Once he had mapped the atoms in his mind, he stepped up against the wall and pushed. Slowly, as if moving through mud, he slipped through the solid wall.

  On the other side, Warren stood for a moment and regrouped himself. The spell he’d used to slip through the solid surface was demanding, and it didn’t always leave him feeling well. A headache pounded between his temples, and his stomach lurched sickeningly.

  When he felt better, he continued.

  * * * *

  The tunnel ran for a quarter mile. Scars from pickaxes, shovels, and blasting powder peppered the wall. Ruts from ironbound wheels scored the rock floor and made treacherous footing on either side of the narrow gauge rail track that ran through the middle of the tunnel.

  Almost before he was ready, Warren reached the other end of the tunnel. Engineers had constructed a concrete plug to fill in the entrance to the British Museum’s lower levels. The oblong plug was twelve feet across and three feet thick. Evidently whoever had given the order to close the tunnel had planned to never use it again.

  Warren placed the hand Merihim had given him against the rock. He gathered his energy, then pushed and twisted.

  Slowly, then with greater speed, the concrete plug gave way and rotated free of the tunnel mouth. Thankfully the grating wasn’t overly loud, but Warren had worked to dampen that as well.

  A moment more and the plug was free. He pushed it forward just enough to clear his body. From the drawings the voice had shown him of Knaarl in the book, Warren knew the demon was larger than he was.

  The darkness in the lower room was complete, but Warren’s enhanced vision allowed him to see perfectly. At some point the museum had been invaded by scavengers that had thrown priceless artifacts around. They’d somehow gotten access to the hermetically sealed vaults that held the various exhibitions not currently on display. Paintings littered the floor, accompanied by shattered vases, plates, and other pottery from around the world.

  A little farther ahead, an Egyptology exhibit Warren had read about in the research he’d done on the British Museum lay in disarray as well. Twenty-three Egyptian mummies occupied sarcophaguses that had been stripped of gold and gems. At one point after Howard Carter’s discovery of the Valley of Kings, mummies had been big business. England had especially taken an interest in the stories.

  Another room was filled with Greek and Roman artifacts that had brought in from the Greek islands, Rome, and the Aegean Sea. Statues, broken and missing pieces, lay like broken toys.

  “Knaarl isn’t here,” the voice said.

  Warren walked through another room filled with African tribal instruments and weapons that was more debris than display now. The founders of the British Museum had sent archeologists in all directions to gather exhibits.

  On the other side of the room, Warren walked down the stairwell to reach the second underground room. Candles burned there. The rancid tallow and the acrid smoke tickled his nose and almost made him sneeze.

  The second floor held glassed panels of dried flowers, seeds, and roots that lay in ruins. Most of the items had been mounted for display, but now they were little more than garbage.

  Knaarl and a group of Darkspawn sorted through the materials kept in the room. They’d been orderly about it, carefully going through the contents and separating everything out.

  The demon stood eleven feet tall. Stood wasn’t exactly the correct word, though. It was more like he coiled. From the waist up, Knaarl was humanoid in appearance, but from the waist down his body was that of a snake.

  Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, the demon was covered in purplish-red scales the size of one-euro coins. A single row of black and green horns stood out above his three black eyes set into a pyramid shape above his thin-lipped mouth. He had no nose. His ears were straight and flat, and they pulsed like a fish’s fins. His lower body turned more purple and the scales were larger.

  It wore a protective vest made of some bilious green hide with strange sigils carved into it. A long, curved sword hung down its back in a scabbard carved of red and black bone.

  When he spoke, his voice came out in a trill. The Dark-spawn worked harder, but it didn’t keep Knaarl from lashing out with the whip he carried. The braided length opened flesh wherever it touched. Two Darkspawn lay nearby on the ground. Neither of them moved and Warren didn’t doubt that they were dead.

  You’ve found him. Good. Merihim’s voice echoed in Warren’s mind. Now deal with him.

  Without warning, Merihim suddenly stepped through a tear in the darkness and entered the underground room. He stood savage and terrible in the darkness.

  “Knaarl,” Merihim called.

  The demon wheeled around at once. His three eyes locked on Merihim. Then the lipless mouth curved into a smile that revealed a double row of fangs.

  “Merihim,” Knaarl said in a thunderous shrill that pealed across the open space of the cavernous room. It almost sounded like the high-pitched squeals of a dolphin. “Fulaghar said he’d chanced upon you in this world.”

  As he listened to the awful sounds, Warren was certain no human ear could have understood what the demon was saying. He wasn’t sure how he was able to.

  “It is Merihim’s doing,” the voice said. “Your ties to him have enabled you to understand the demon tongue.”

  “Why is he taking part in this?” Warren asked. “He wasn’t there when I confronted Hargastor.”

  “Merihim and Knaarl have a long and sordid history together.”

  Warren couldn’t help wondering how the voice knew that, and why it didn’t elaborate on that history.

  “Did Fulaghar speak of me in fear?” Merihim responded.

  Knaarl smiled even more broadly. “No. He spoke of you in annoyance. As he would any pest. Or lord of such.”

  “Stay back out of this for the time being,” the voice warned Warren. “This isn’t your fight. Yet.”

  Warren was more than happy to stay out of the way.

  Knaarl cracked his whip. The Darkspawn turned around, instantly attentive.

  “You weren’t invited to this place,” Knaarl said.

  “I was,” Merihim countered.

  “Not by any of the Dark Wills who claimed this place as prey.”

  A Dark Will was a demon that had consumed countless billions. Warren knew that from his reading. But now he knew that more had to have been involved in rising through the demon hierarchy.

  “I didn’t need their invitation,” Merihim growled.

  “You’re not a Dark Will, Merihim,” Knaarl declared. “You only wish to be one.”

  “I will be one,” Merihim roared. “After all my years, I deserve to be one.”

  Warren heard the anger in the demon’s words.

  “The Dark Wills won’t accept you because they don’t trust you,” Knaarl said. “They will never give you that kind of power.”

  “I don’t have to have it given,” Merihim snapped. “I’m strong enough to take it.”

  “Fulaghar sees only that you are greedy enough to get yourself killed in this world. You would have better served yourself if you had maintained your alliance with him.”

  “That was no alliance. He granted me a life of subservience. The same life that he gave you, Hargastor, and Toklorq. Are you happy being a slave?”

  Knaarl waved at the Darkspawn clustered around him. “We’re all slaves to Greater Evil, Merihim. Only you—and perhaps a few others—aren’t happy with that. And most of those have died the Final Death.”

  “I don’t choose to be a slave. At least the Darkspawn, Gremlins, and Imps aren’t intelligent enough to see how badly they’re used.”

  “So it would be better to be reduced to something barely above animal awareness?” Knaarl licked his lipless mouth.

  Mer
ihim didn’t say anything.

  “You managed your appearance here with another of your little baubles, didn’t you?” Knaarl asked. “One of your little treasures you sow among the humans to get them to call upon you.”

  “We’re all allowed access to unclaimed worlds,” Merihim said.

  “That changes after a world has been targeted for a Hellgate and a Burn.” Knaarl slithered closer and shook out his whip. “Only then, under the auspices of the Eldest, may we take part in a Burn that purges a world of Light. You were not named to take place in this. Fulaghar was.”

  Merihim scowled. “Fulaghar doesn’t deserve a world this full of prey.”

  “Have a care with your viperous tongue,” Knaarl warned. “You speak of my master.”

  “All those years ago you chose masters wrongly.”

  Knaarl’s grin was obscene. “Because I didn’t choose you, my lord?” The sarcasm carried through the shrill tone.

  “Yes.”

  Knaarl cocked his head to one side. “Your vassals seem to come to quick, untimely ends.” The three black eyes regarded Warren. “And you oftentimes choose them unwisely.”

  Warren got them impression that he’d been judged, threatened, and dismissed all at the same time. If he hadn’t been so frightened, he might have felt demeaned and outraged. But part of him knew he might die in the next few minutes.

  “None of those that chose you back in those days are still alive,” Knaarl said.

  “Through no fault of my own.”

  “Forgive my impudence, Begetter of Pestilence, but you either chose unwisely or you broke your toys by risking too much.”

  Merihim grinned crookedly, and the demon’s delight was a horrible thing to behold. “Have you talked to Hargastor lately?”

  Knaarl cocked his head. His arm twitched and his lash slithered along the stone floor like a live thing. Several of the Darkspawn backed away from it fearfully.

  “Hargastor was slain in a battle against Templar,” Knaarl said.

  “No, he was slain by another.”

  “The Darkspawn who were with Hargastor and escaped with their lives said they’d fought Templar. They were put to death for abandoning Hargastor, of course.” Knaarl licked his lips. “Thus far, you’re the only act of insubordination to Fulaghar that has lived. If you choose to stay in this place for long—”

  “I am staying here,” Merihim said.

  “—then that oversight will soon be rectified.” Knaarl cracked his whip. “I look forward to telling my master of your demise. Especially if you had a hand in Hargastor’s death.”

  Merihim stood his ground fearlessly. “Out of respect to our past friendship, I offer you this chance to live.”

  Knaarl laughed and the explosive squeaks nearly deafened Warren.

  “You can’t touch me here, Merihim,” the demon replied. “If you act directly against me or Fulaghar, you will draw the dire wrath of the First.”

  “The Great Eye allows power struggles among the Dark Wills and the Eldest,” Merihim replied. “Only the strongest are fit to stand at his feet.”

  Warren had read about the First, also called the Great Eye. The demon had been created out of the Shadow in direct opposition to the Light. The First was eternal and unforgiving. It was he who kept the Eldest and the Dark Wills in line.

  “Not in this place and time,” Knaarl said. “The Burn must run its course on this world first. If you wish to challenge my master after that, then you may ask for your doom.” He smiled. “If Fulaghar is generous, maybe he won’t torture you before destroying you forever.”

  “Perhaps I can’t raise my hand against him,” Merihim said, “but others may in my stead.”

  Knaarl gazed at Merihim. “You have a Chosen?”

  “I do.” Merihim swept a hand toward Warren. “And he has come here to kill you and deprive Fulaghar of another of his vassals.”

  With a quick, serpentine twist, Knaarl looked past Merihim at Warren.

  “A human?” Knaarl crowed in delight. “From all that you had to choose from, and you chose one of the pathetic creatures we kill effortlessly every day.” He cracked his whip. “You would have been better off to strike a bargain with the Templar.”

  “The Templar will never deal with a demon. And I’ve chosen more wisely than you think.”

  “We’ll see.” Knaarl flicked his whip without warning. The braided length sped toward Warren’s face like a lightning strike.

  Forty-One

  Time slowed as Warren’s senses churned into overdrive. As the whip came closer, he saw that it had been braided of long, thin snakelike demons. All of them had their mouths open, fangs glistening.

  Merihim made no move.

  Knowing he could never hope to avoid the whip, Warren reached up with his demon hand and stepped forward to intercept the blow. He caught the whip a few inches back from the barbed end. Several of the braided demons sank their fangs into Warren’s hand. Poison burned through his veins.

  Knaarl cursed and yanked the whip back. The braided demons in Warren’s hand turned loose and curled around to attack in earnest. They slithered up his arm and came immediately at his face.

  Warren’s first instinct was to run.

  “Don’t,” the voice said. “If the demons don’t get you, your exertion will only pump the poison through your heart faster. If that doesn’t kill you, Knaarl or Merihim will. Fight them. You have the power.”

  Steeling himself, Warren took hold of the arcane forces seething through him. He pushed heat out of his body and felt his bones grow cold. But when the heat touched the air outside his skin, it turned to white-hot flame that crisped the slithering snake-demons to gray ash. He shook himself and the ash fell away from him like powdered snow.

  “Good,” the voice said. “Very good.”

  Warren eyed the approaching demon and concentrated again. When Knaarl flicked the whip once more, Warren stepped to the side and it missed by inches. He thrust out his hand and picked up an empty crate that the Dark-spawn had rifled through.

  Knaarl drew back his whip and shook out its length again. “Going to throw that at me, human?”

  With a quick gesture, Warren did. Knaarl lifted an arm lazily, as if he were just going to brush the crate aside. Instead, only a few feet from his opponent, Warren shattered the crate into jagged shards.

  The wooden shrapnel pierced Knaarl’s thick hide in several places. Most of the shards glanced off because they weren’t heavy enough to smash through the demon’s skin or because they hit at an oblique angle and slid away. But dozens of others embedded in Knaarl’s face and upper body. One of the three black eyes took a direct hit and wept blood down his face.

  Knaarl roared in pain and rage as he wiped at the offending splinters. He cracked the whip at Warren so hard that part of the snake-demons shot off the end. Several of the Darkspawn picked up their swords and axes and ran at Warren.

  Working quickly, Warren levitated other crates—some empty and some full—at the Darkspawn. Seeds and books flew in all directions when the crates impacted against the Darkspawn. Their energy weapons blasted the walls and produced pools of acidic poison or started fires. Several of them when down.

  Warren turned and fled back up the stairway to the chamber above. When he reached the landing, he angled for the corner that held the Egyptian artifacts. He poured arcane energy out of himself as footsteps and the sound of coiling scales pursued him.

  By the time the Darkspawn reached the chamber, the Egyptian mummies were climbing from their sarcophaguses. Animated by the dark forces that Warren supplied, the mummies tore into the Darkspawn with grim and savage abandon.

  Desiccated flesh, bones, and natron salt-soaked linen quickly covered the floor as the mummies came apart. But the Darkspawn fell too, dragged down by the mummies.

  His two remaining eyes blazing, Knaarl slithered into the room and searched for Warren. As Knaarl drew the whip back, Warren unleashed a wave of flames that washed over the demon and the nearby Darks
pawn. The mummies went up in flames at once and wreathed the demons in them.

  Knaarl drew back as the flames ate through his hide and burned him. His whip abandoned him as the snake-demons unbraided themselves and fell to the floor. They burned there and never made it out of the flames.

  Behind Knaarl, Merihim stood looking on. Warren couldn’t tell what emotion was showing on the demon’s face. Merihim’s attention was divided between Warren and Knaarl.

  “Merihim knows you’ve gotten stronger,” the voice said. “That unsettles him.”

  “I don’t think he wanted me to die,” Warren said.

  “No, but he wouldn’t have been surprised.”

  “Then who would he have gotten to do his dirty work?”

  “Merihim never counts on any one strategy,” the voice said.

  While Warren was trying to figure out what that meant, Knaarl broke free of the flames and came at him. The demon drew the curved sword from over its shoulder. Silver fire glinted along the razor-sharp edge. Knaarl seemed almost to spring forward.

  “Now,” the voice urged. “Strike now while he’s concerned about the flames and his wounds from the wooden splinters are still open.”

  Warren reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out a glass globe he’d prepared under instruction from the voice. The globe was filled with orange and white froth, but three dark blue arrowhead shapes swam within the liquid. They each had one eye and a thin, barbed tail twice their length.

  The voice had called them heart-renders and stated that Knaarl would be vulnerable to them. Warren hoped that was true. He held the globe on his palm and pushed it forward.

  The globe spun through the air. Knaarl saw the projectile too late to avoid it. When the globe struck the demon just below the collarbone, the force was great enough to knock him backwards. His upper body swayed on the coils of his lower half so far that for a moment it looked like he might tip over. He put a hand back to steady himself.