King of Hell (The Shadow Saga)

by Christopher Golden

  He caressed the ring for a moment and then removed his hand from his pocket, leaving the ring there. His good luck charm.

  Inside the glass cathedral, they found themselves in a chamber forty feet wide and twenty high. The walls and ceiling were scorched black. The dim light from outside carried through the massive, twisted hole overhead and in that illumination they could see a broad stairway vanishing downward beneath an arched ceiling. Dead things lay at the top of the steps, statues of misshapen ash, and as they approached the top of the broad stairs, Danny felt a coldness spreading through him. Not a chill on his skin or in his bones, but an icing of his heart.

  Hell loomed so near. There, desires were encouraged. Destruction permitted. As he took the first step downward, he felt as if the skate kid he'd been — the kid with the torn Red Sox cap and the old comics — was being left behind.

  "That's just disgusting," Squire said.

  Danny blinked. He had fallen into a kind of trance and only now, three steps down, right behind Squire and Octavian, did he see what they must have noticed the moment they had reached the top of the stairs. At first glance it appeared to be a circular mirror, perhaps twelve feet in diameter, its silver surface smooth and reflecting the charred carnage around them.

  The frame of the mirror had been sculpted from the flesh and bone of one creature, a citizen of this city. Its hands dangled loosely at either edge of the mirror, flesh gray and bloated, and at the top sat its head, stretched so badly that it had split up to the forehead, exposing bone and the dripping yellow matter of something that must have been its brain.

  "You sure this is a good idea?" Squire asked.

  Octavian laughed and glanced at him. "It's a terrible idea," he said. "But if it was you in there, you'd want your friends to come after you."

  Squire continued to descend the steps. He shot a look back at Danny. "How are you doing, kid?"

  Danny only stared straight ahead and continued downward. He could see Octavian and Squire in the mirror, and he could see himself, small but growing larger as they approached. For a second, he averted his gaze. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to look in a mirror, to come face to face with his own monstrosity. But now a little spark of excitement ignited in his chest. He raised his head and studied himself. In that reflection, he towered over the mage and the hobgoblin. His long fingers hung like talons and his eyes burned with a deep crimson. The demon inside Danny couldn't help itself — it smiled.

  "Something funny?" Squire asked. He'd seen the reflection of that smile. "'Cause now seems a weird time to be —"

  Whatever he might have said next was lost as the silver mirror surface rippled and a huge, taloned hand emerged, palm up, motioning them to halt. The demon stepped out of that mirror as if sliding from a pool and the silvery liquid mirror wavered behind him and went still.

  Not a mirror, Danny thought. A portal.

  But he'd known that from the moment he'd seen it. From before he had seen it, really. This was the door they had come looking for.

  The sentry — for surely this was the guardian of the door — stood at least a couple of feet taller than Danny. Its sickly, jaundice-yellow flesh revealed many eyes, which seemed to look in several directions at once. Its tongue slipped out of a narrow slit mouth, long and forked and darting like a snake's. A massive prick swung between its legs and Danny registered the spot as a vulnerability.

  In its right hand, the sentry held a long sword whose blade seemed to be made of bone on one edge and a strange ebony, perhaps volcanic stone, on the other.

  The demon's roving eyes locked on Octavian and Squire, who still led the way. It barked a command in its own guttural tongue. Danny had lived his whole life speaking English and even his thoughts were in that language, but he realized that he understood.

  "Not another step," it had said.

  "Move aside, asshat," Squire replied.

  The demon's eyes twitched and blinked and its darting tongue paused a second, and then it reached back through the mirrored portal with its free hand, made a gesture, and another — the twin of the first — emerged.

  "I could just kill them," Octavian muttered.

  "If you want all of Hell down on your damn head," Squire muttered. "They're sentries. You don't think killing them would raise some kind of alarm?"

  When the magic began to flow through Octavian, Danny felt it. The skin on his arms prickled and the air seemed to contract around them. A rich blue light began to glow around the mage's fists and to spill like mist from his eyes. The two demons raised their swords, hissed and thrust out their tongues, and started forward.

  "Isn't this what we brought you for?" Squire snapped at Danny.

  The boy he'd been raised to be wanted to whine and complain that he didn't know what to do, but the devil he'd been born felt the power within him. Danny took a step down, pushed between Octavian and Squire, and then took two more steps to meet the demons' approach.

  They were hideous to look at and they didn't smell much better.

  "Turn back or die," the first sentry said in that same demonic language.

  His twin grunted in laughter. "No, no, brother. Too late for them to turn back." He cocked his arm, prepared to bring his sword down.

  "You don't want to do that," Danny said.

  The blade whistled as it came round in an arc meant to take off his head. Danny ducked enough that the ebony edge of the sword struck one of his horns, sparks flying, and then he stepped up and punched the sentry in the forehead as hard as he could. The sentry staggered backward but Danny held on to his wrist and twisted the sword out of his grip. He kicked the sentry to the ground even as his brother roared and jumped forward, halting as Danny brought the sword up and pressed it to his chest, right between two furious eyes.

  "If I was you —" he started to say.

  The one he'd knocked down cried out in pain and began to puff up, growing in stature and girth. Its head split into an impossibly wide mouth full of rows of jagged teeth and green, frothy drool spilled from its lips.

  "Danny —" Octavian began, but Danny shot him a wary look.

  "Don't screw this up for yourself," he warned, and Octavian hesitated, the magic swirling around his fists diminishing.

  As one sentry grew into an even more hideous monster, Danny focused on the demon who had yet to change, who had paused at the end of the stolen sword Danny pointed at him.

  "You better chill for a second and listen," Danny said, wondering if they could understand him. "Whatever lower demon you report to, whatever thing that crawls in the pit, it's not going to be happy if you kill the son of a Demon Lord."

  The one at his swordpoint scoffed. "You? What Lord would ever claim you as his son?"

  Apparently it had understood him just fine.

  Danny hesitated. He'd heard several names for his father in the time he'd known Mr. Doyle, but when they had encountered Wayland Smith and the Traveler had given a name, it had felt more right and true than any he'd heard before.

  "I am Orias, son of Oriax," he said, feeling foolish, like he was in the middle of the weirdest Shakespeare performance ever. "And I command you to stand aside and let my companions enter."

  If his skin had not already been a leathery red, he felt sure he would have blushed. The words had felt absurd coming out of his mouth. But the sentry actually looked alarmed and backed up a step, and the other — its twin — began to shrink and regain its original appearance.

  Danny blinked in surprise. Behind him, Squire gave a small grunt of something that might have been appreciation. Whoever Oriax might have been, he carried some weight. Danny wondered if his father was still alive, and then he hated himself for wondering — the only parent he cared about was the only one who had shown him unconditional love, and she was dead. He had no interest in the monsters who had conceived him.

  "Prove yourself," the first sentry said, raising his sword and gently parrying Danny's, turning it aside so that they both lowered their blades. "We
take no commands from impostors."

  "How do you propose I —"

  "Blood," Octavian said, stepping up on Danny's left, eyes still leaking an intimidating aura of magic. "They'll need to taste your blood."

  Danny frowned. "What, you mean like a vampire?"

  The sentries made noises of revulsion.

  "There is a reason our breed are made sentries," the first said. "We don't need to drink your blood, but we must taste it. You can draw your own blood."

  Danny stared at them.

  Squire stepped up behind him and gave him a nudge. "Kid."

  "Fine, whatever," Danny said. He reached up and drew a sharp talon along his cheek, sliced the flesh with a leathery tearing sound, and felt the warm blood spill down his face and run along his jaw, beginning to drip.

  The second sentry — its mouth even wider and more grotesque than when it appeared — stepped up and reached out a hand, running its three fingers across Danny's jaw. He managed not to flinch from its stench as it drew its fingers toward its mouth. That revolting tongue snaked out and slithered across its fingertips and instantly the demon stiffened. With so many eyes, the sentry could not hide the shock of its reaction, followed by obvious confusion. It reached out and smeared Danny's blood on its brother's searching tongue.

  "This is just nasty," Squire muttered.

  "Hush," Octavian said.

  The first sentry — the second to taste Danny's blood — hung its head in indecision but only for a moment before it knelt on the stairs before him, placing its sword on the step above. Its brother followed suit an instant later.

  "Well, well," Squire said happily.

  Danny punched him in the shoulder and the hobgoblin grunted. Don't blow it, he wanted to say, because there was no way these idiots ought to be kneeling to him. Yeah, okay, maybe his father was a Demon Lord, but Octavian knew a lot about the workings of Hell and hadn't told him to expect this kind of reception. It made him uneasy, but part of his discomfort stemmed from the fact that he liked it. A lot.

  "Get up," he said.

  "You are Orias, son of . . . of Oriax," the first sentry said, all of his eyes downcast.

  Octavian tapped Danny on the arm. "What is this? All the time I spent in Hell, I never heard of a Lord named Oriax. How does he warrant this?"

  "That'd be my question, too," Squire said. "But it works for me."

  "Get up," Danny said again. He thought maybe he should say rise or something more formal like that, but he felt stupid enough as it was. "Seriously."

  The sentries did as instructed. The second, whom Danny had embarrassed by disarming him, still seemed unsure, as if the temptation to say or do something gnawed at him.

  "Stand aside," Danny told them.

  After a moment's hesitation, they did so. Suddenly the allure of Hell swept over him, more powerful than ever before. He stared at that mirrored portal and the primal, diabolical part of him wanted to laugh and hurl itself through. What wonders awaited him?

  No, he thought. Not wonders — horrors.

  It took all of the will he could muster for Danny to turn his back on Hell. He reached into his pocket and fiddled with his mother's emerald ring, hoping it would really lead him back to Mr. Doyle's house, because that was home. That world, that building, the memories there, and the people — if they ever returned.

  "Danny," Octavian said, "are you sure you won't come with us? I've got people I love in there and it would go much easier if I didn't have to fight to get them out."

  Squire sniffed. "You've got magic practically falling out of your ass and a sword I made, just in case we run into anything your magic can't kill —"

  "Which we will," Octavian said. "You better believe we will."

  "You'll be fine," Squire told him. "Let the kid alone."

  Danny studied them, the ugly little hobgoblin and the tall, handsome mage who looked more like a grizzled gunfighter than a sorcerer. They were noble company and in any other circumstance he would have wanted to go with them, but if he went along now, he knew it would not be to help.

  "If I go through that door, I'm afraid I won't be myself anymore," he said.

  The sentries grew agitated. The conversation troubled them, but whatever fealty they owed Danny because of his heritage kept them from speaking up.

  "I understand," Octavian said.

  "What about you?" Danny asked. "You'll find your way?"

  "I lived here for a thousand years. I'll manage."

  Danny nodded. They said their farewells and he watched as they slipped through the mirrored portal, which rippled for a few seconds after their passing and then went still. Somehow he felt better when they'd gone, as if by not choosing to go with them he had already begun his journey back to the human world.

  Clutching the ring in his pocket, he turned to the sentries.

  "You won't speak of this," he said. "I forbid it."

  Forbid. More Shakespeare-sounding crap. But they nodded their heads in acceptance and he felt pretty certain they would obey, otherwise they would have cut his head off already.

  Hell tugged at his heart, but he turned his back on the doorway, walked up the steps and out into the melted ruins of a city he had never known, a civilization no one had been left alive to remember. The thought made him realize that his life as a gargoyle perched on Mr. Doyle's roof had a purpose he had never realized. Extraordinary people had lived there and had gone from that place. They had been heroes, and no one had erected a marker in their honor. So Danny would remember. Until the day they returned, he would be the keeper of their memory.

  Compared to that, Hell had no allure at all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hell

  The difficulty in navigating Hell sprang from its malleability. There were regions and districts that were defined, the strongholds of Demon Lords and the fields of the damned and the dungeon, the absolute sub-basement of Hell where those lords and high-ranking soldiers who had betrayed their brothers and sisters were imprisoned for eternity. These were not traitors who had stabbed other demons in the back — that was the bloodsport of Hell, and to be expected — they were the hellions who had turned to the light, who had sought kindness and love as if such things could be within their grasp.

  Like Danny, Octavian thought, though the young devil had achieved that very thing. Believing in the light was one thing — he would not be punished for that — but attempting to spread that belief, to bring light into the dark fires of the inferno, for that he would be twice-damned.

  "Hey," Squire said. "You got a single clue where we are?"

  "More or less."

  "How much less?"

  Octavian glanced around. They were in a massive chamber with no discernible ceiling and a pit so deep there seemed no bottom. Stairs had been carved into the walls and there were doorways from time to time that would take them into other caverns, other tunnels. Flames erupted at odd intervals from cracks in the walls and stairs and black, four-winged, mindless predator demons flew on the thermal drafts that belched up inside the throat of that cavern. They stank like shit and sickness, but in Hell, that was as good as it was going to get.

  "A hundred feet or so down, there'll be a door, and we'll be out of the throat. If the geography's even close to the same — and it's probably shifted, I just don't know how much — then we'll be in the stronghold of Belial —"

  "That doesn't sound very smart."

  "Belial's dead. Even while I was here there were a hundred lower demons fighting for his seat. With luck it's still in disarray and we can pass through without much trouble."

  "You're in Hell relying on luck?" Squire said. His yellow eyes gleamed as he narrowed them. The hobgoblin had looked nervous from the moment they had crossed over, and Octavian had wondered from hour to hour if he ought to have come alone.

  "Listen —"

  "Shut up, dickhead," the hobgoblin said. "I'm here to help. I'm helping."

  "Don't tell me you didn't have anything better to do," Octavian said as they
moved carefully down a broken segment of stone steps. Fire erupted ahead of them and Squire grabbed his wrist, held him back.

  "I pay my debts," the little man said. "And I've lost too many friends these last few years. I don't have enough of them that I can afford to lose any more."

  "Aww, that's sweet," Octavian teased.

  "Screw."

  Octavian heard a leathery rustle off to his left and turned just in time to avoid the talons of one of the four-winged fliers. It let out a shriek like an infant's cry of pain as it flapped its wings and banked, gliding higher on the hot air rising from the furnace of the pit below. The one that had attacked circled around the throat of the cavern, turning glittering silver eyes downward, tracking them.

  "That ain't good," Squire said.

  "Hurry." Octavian quickened his descent. Two circuits on the stairs would bring them to the next exit from the cavern. He had hoped that they could descend much further than that without difficulty, but if the predators were going to come after them, they had to be smart about it.

  Squire grunted and huffed as he came down after the mage. "Easy for you to say. Have you not seen how stumpy my legs are?"

  The infantile shrieking began again and Octavian glanced up to see two other predators joining the first in its flight pattern. There were dozens of others above and below — sometimes darting at the stone walls of the cavern to cling for a moment and dart their sharp beaks into holes where massive worms and insects might be found — but these three flew in formation and there could be no doubt that they had a purpose in mind. They were hunting.

  Running down the steps, Octavian's heart pounded in his chest. It would have been so much easier if he could just use magic — he had a hundred ways to destroy these winged demons — but he knew that every time he cast even the tiniest spell or summoned the magic within him, he ran the risk of alerting the Demon Lords to his presence. Like the scent of smoke on the wind, the frisson of sorcery in the air would carry. Some types of demons would react like sharks to blood in the water, and the Demon Lords would learn of their presence.